o 


/ 

w**^ /sS&~S  J 


C1U. 


<~ss*^?? 


Slowly,  bare-headed  through  the  surf  we  tore 
The  Sacred  Cross 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


SAMUEL  KOGERS 


ELEGANTLY  ILLUSTRATED. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PUBLISHED  BY  E.  H.  BUTLER  &  CO. 

1854. 


OH  could  my  mind,  unfolded  in  my  page, 
Enlighten  climes  and  mould  a  future  age; 
There  as  it  glowed,  with  noblest  frenzy  fraught, 
Dispense  the  treasures  of  exalted  thought; 
To  Virtue  wake  the  pulses  of  the  heart, 
And  bid  the  tear  of  emulation  start ! 
Oh  could  it  still,  thro'  each  succeeding  year, 
My  life,  my  manners,  and  my  name  endear ; 
And,  when  the  poet  sleeps  in  silent  dust, 
Still  hold  communion  with  the  wise  and  just!  — 
Yet  should  this  Verse,  my  leisure's  best  resource. 
When  thro'  the  world  it  steals  its  secret  course, 
Revive  but  once  a  generous  wish  supprest, 
Chase  but  a  sigh,  or  charm  a  care  to  rest; 
In  one  good  deed  a  fleeting  hour  employ, 
Or  flush  one  faded  cheek  with  honest  joy; 
Blest  were  my  lines,  tho'  limited  their  sphere, 
Tho'  short  their  date,  as  his  who  traced  them  here. 
1793.  (vii) 


2220503 


CONTENTS. 


tun 

THE  PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY       ..........      15 


. 

'         HUMAN  LIFE 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  A  FRIEND     ...........      94 

JACQUELINE  ..............    .110 

ODE  TO  SUPERSTITION    ...........        .123 

•WRITTEN  TO  BE  SPOKEN  IN  A  THEATRE    ........    130 

ON  ...  ASLEEP    ..............    133 

FROM  A  GREEK  EPIGRAM  ............    133 

FROM  EURIPIDES      ............        .134 

FROM  AN  ITALIAN  SONNET      ...........    134 

TO  THE  YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER  OF  LADY  *  *  ......        .135 

WRITTEN  AT  MIDNIGHT     ............    135 

THE  SAILOR        ..............    13C 

TO  AN  OLD  OAK    ..............    137 

TO  TWO  SISTERS        .............    139 

ON  A  TEAR     .  ...........    140 

TO  A  VOICE  THAT  HAD  BEEN  LOST    .........    141 

THE  BOY  OF  EGREMOND    ............    142 

WRITTEN  IN  A  SICK  CHAMBER  ..........    141 

TO  ...  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  SISTER  .........    144 

TO  A  FRIEND  ON  HIS  MARRIAGE        .........    145 

THE  ALPS  AT  DAY-TJREAK         ...........    146 

(ix) 


X  CONTENTS. 

rim 

A  CHARACTER 147 

CAPTIVITY * 147 

/   A  FAREWELL 147 

'      TTO. US 

TO  THE  TORSO 14S 

A  WISH 149 

TO  THE  GNAT 150 

TO  THE  BUTTERFLY 150 

AN  EPITAPH  ON  A  ROBIN-REDBREAST 151 

AN  ITALIAN  SONG 151 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS  OF  SCOTLAND 152 

INSCRIPTION  IN  THE  CRIMEA l  .        .  155 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  TEMPLE 156 

WRITTEN  IN  1834 156 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  STRATFIELD  SAYE 158 

/REFLECTIONS 159 

WRITTEN  AT  DROPMORE 162 

WRITTEN  TN  JULY  1834 163 

WRITTEN  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 164 

THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS 166 

ITALY 221 

THE  LAKE  OF  GENEVA 221 

MEILLERIE 224 

ST.  MAURICE 227 

THE  GREAT  ST.  BERNARD 228 

THE  DESCENT 232 

JORASSE 233 

MARGUERITE  DE  TOURS 237 

THE  BROTHERS 239 

THE  ALPS 242 

COMO 244 

BERGAMO 247 

ITALY               250 


CONTENTS.  XI 

PAGE 

COLL' ALTO 251 

VENICE     .  254 

LUIGI 2g9 

ST.  MARK'S  PLACE 261 

THE  GONDOLA 267 

THE  BRIDES  OF  VENICE 271 

FOSCARI 275 

MARCOLINI 282 

ARQUA 284 

GINEVRA 2S7 

BOLOGNA 290 

FLORENCE 294 

DON  GARZ^A 297 

THE  CAMPAGNA  OF  FLORENCE 300 

THE  PILGRIM 311 

AN  INTERVIEW 314 

MONTORIO 318 

HOME 321 

A  FUNERAL 326 

NATIONAL  PREJUDICES 330 

THE  CAMPAGNA  OF  ROME 333 

THE  ROMAN  PONTIFFS 337 

CAIUS  CESTIUS  .  338 

THE  NUN 339 

THE  FIRE-FLY 341 

FOREIGN  TRAVEL 343 

THE  FOUNTAIN 348 

BANDITTI 349 

AN  ADVENTURE .    353 

NAPLES 357 

THE  BAG  OF  GOLD 3C3 

A  CHARACTER .369 

P^STUM 371 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

PAOS 

SORRENTO. 375 

MONTE  CASSINO 378 

THE  HARPER 380 

THE  FELUCCA 382 

GENOA '  ....  385 

MARCO  GRIFFONI 387 

A  FAREWELL 389 

NOTES   .                                                                                                                       .  334 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


SUBJECT.  PAINTER                                                                              PAGE. 

PORTRAIT  OF  TUB  AUTHOR        .  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  R.  A.     .     Frontispiece. 

LANDING  OF  COLUMBUS           .  Turner,  R.  A.                          .        .      Title-page. 

THE  GARDEN Turner,  R.  A 18 

ST.  HUBERT'S        ....        Turner,  R.  A 40 

LLEWELLYN  HALL         .        .        .    Turner,  R.  A 64 

VENICE Turner,  R.  A 76 

DISCOVERY  OF  LAND     .        .        .    Turner,  R.  A.     • 18S 

CHRISTINE Turner,  R.  A 252 

THE  BRIDES  OF  VENICE      .        .    Stothard,  R.  A 275 

G1NEVRA Turner,  R.  A 2*7 

GIOVANNI  AND  GARZIA       .        .    Vasan,  R.  A 20S 

PAESTUM Turner,  R.  A 371 


THE 


PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY, 

PART  I. 


Dolce  scntier, 

Colle,  che  mi  piacesti,  .... 
Ov'  ancor  per  usanza  Amor  mi  mena ; 
Ben  riconosco  in  voi  1"  usate  forme, 
Non,  lasso,  in  me. 

PETRARCH. 


ANALYSIS  OF  THE  FIRST  PAET. 

THE  Poem  begins  with  the  description  of  an  obscure 
village,  and  of  the  pleasing  melancholy  which  it  excites 
on  being  revisited  after  a  long  absence.  This  mixed 
sensation  is  an  effect  of  the  Memory.  From  an  effect 
we  naturally  ascend  to  the  cause ;  and  the  subject  pro- 
posed is  then  unfolded  with  an  investigation  of  the  nature 
and  leading  principles  of  this  faculty. 

It  is  evident  that  our  ideas  flow  in  continual  succession, 
and  introduce  each  other  with  a  certain  degree  of  regu- 
larity. They  are  sometimes  excited  by  sensible  objects, 
and  sometimes  by  an  internal  operation  of  the  mind. 
Of  the  former  species  is  most  probably  the  memory  of 
brutes ;  and  its  many  sources  of  pleasure  to  them,  as  well 

(15) 


16  THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 

as  to  us,  are  considered  in  the  first  part.  The  latter  is 
the  most  perfect  degree  of  memory,  and  forms  the  subject 
of  the  second. 

When  ideas  have  any  relation  whatever,  they  are 
attractive  of  each  other  in  the  mind ;  and  the  perception 
of  any  object  naturally  leads  to  the  idea  of  another,  which 
was  connected  with  it  either  in  time  or  place,  or  which 
can  be  compared  or  contrasted  with  it.  Hence  arises  our 
attachment  to  inanimate  objects;  hence  also,  in  some 
degree,  the  love  of  our  country,  and  the  emotion  with 
which  we  contemplate  the  celebrated  scenes  of  antiquity. 
Hence  a  picture  directs  our  thoughts  to  the  original : 
and,  as  cold  and  darkness  suggest  forcibly  the  ideas  of 
heat  and  light,  he,  who  teels  the  infirmities  of  age,  dwells 
most  on  whatever  reminds  him  of  the  vigour  and  vivacity 
of  his  youth. 

The  associating  principle,  as  here  employed,  is  no  less 
conducive  to  virtue  than  to  happiness ;  and,  as  such,  it 
frequently  discovers  itself  in  the  most  tumultuous  scenes 
of  life.  It  addresses  our  finer  feelings,  and  gives  exercise 
to  every  mild  and  generous  propensity. 

Not  confined  to  man,  it  extends  through  all  animated 
nature;  and  its  effects  are  peculiarly  striking  in  the 
domestic  tribes. 


TWILIGHT'S  soft  dews  steal  o'er  the  village-green, 
With  magic  tints  to  harmonize  the  scene. 
Stilled  is  the  hum  that  thro'  the  hamlet  broke, 
When  round  the  ruins  of  their  ancient  oak 
The  peasants  flocked  to  hear  the  minstrel  play, 
And  games  and  carols  closed  the  busy  day. 


THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  17 

Her  wheel  at  rest,  the  matron  thrills  no  more 
With  treasured  tales,  and  legendary  lore. 
All,  all  are  fled;  nor  mirth  nor  music  flows 
To  chase  the  dreams  of  innocent  repose. 
All,  all  are  fled ;  yet  still  I  linger  here ! 
What  secret  charms  this  silent  spot  endear? 

Mark  yon  old  Mansion  frowning  thro'  the  trees, 
Whose  hollow  turret  wooes  the  whistling  breeze. 
That  casement,  arched  with  ivy's  brownest  shade, 
First  to  these  eyes  the  light  of  heaven  conveyed. 
The  mouldering  gateway  strews  the  grass-grown  court, 
Once  the  calm  scene  of  many  a  simple  sport; 
When  nature  pleased,  for  life  itself  was  new, 
And  the  heart  promised  what  the  fancy  drew. 

See,  thro'  the  fractured  pediment  revealed, 
Where  moss  inlays  the  rudely-sculptured  shield, 
The  martin's  old,  hereditary  nest. 
Long  may  the  ruin  spare  its  hallowed  guest ! 

As  jars  the  hinge,  what  sullen  echoes  call! 
Oh  haste,  unfold  the  hospitable  hall ! 
That  hall,  where  once,  in  antiquated  state, 
The  chair  of  justice  held  the  grave  debate. 

Now  stained  with  dews,  with  cobwebs  darkly  hung, 
Oft  has  its  roof  with  peals  of  rapture  rung ; 
When  round  yon  ample  board,  in  due  degree, 
We  sweetened  every  meal  with  social  glee. 
The  heart's  light  laugh  pursued  the  circling  jest ; 
And  all  was  sunshine  in  each  little  breast. 
'Twas  here  we  chased  the  slipper  by  the  sound; 
And  turned  the  blindfold  hero  round  and  round. 
'Twas  here,  at  eve,  we  formed  our  fairy  ring; 
And  Fancy  fluttered  on  her  wildest  wing. 
2*  c 


J 


18  THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 

Giants  and  genii  chained  each  wondering  ear; 

And  orphan-sorrows  drew  the  ready  tear. 

Oft  with  the  babes  we  wandered  in  the  wood, 

Or  viewed  the  forest-feats  of  Robin  Hood: 

Oft,  fancy-led,  at  midnight's  fearful  hour, 

With  startling  step  we  scaled  the  lonely  tower; 

O'er  infant  innocence  to  hang  and  weep, 

Murdered  by  ruffian  hands,  when  smiling  in  its  sleep. 

Ye  Household  Deities !  whose  guardian  eye 
Marked  each  pure  thought,  ere  registered  on  high; 
Still,  still  ye  walk  the  consecrated  ground, 
And  breathe  the  soul  of  Inspiration  round. 

As  o'er  the  dusky  furniture  I  bend, 
Each  chair  awakes  the  feelings  of  a  friend. 
The  storied  arras,  source  of  fond  delight, 
With  old  achievement  charms  the  wildered  sight; 
And  still,  with  Heraldry's  rich  hues  imprest, 
On  the  dim  window  glows  the  pictured  crest. 
The  screen  unfolds  its  many-coloured  chart, 
The  clock  still  points  its  moral  to  the  heart. 
That  faithful  monitor  'twas  heaven  to  hear, 
When  soft  it  spoke  a  promised  pleasure  near; 
And  has  its  sober  hand,  its  simple  chime, 
Forgot  to  trace  the  feathered  feet  of  Time  ? 
That  massive  beam,  with  curious  carvings  wrought, 
Whence  the  caged  linnet  soothed  my  pensive  thought ; 
Those  muskets,  cased  with  venerable  rust; 
Those  once-loved  forms,  still  breathing  thro'  their  dust, 
Still,  from  the  frame  in  mould  gigantic  cast, 
Starting  to  life  —  all  whisper  of  the  Past ! 

As  thro'  the  garden's  desert  paths  I  rove, 
What  fond  illusions  swarm  in  every  grove ! 


A.~  thi  c-' 


^  desert  pat 

:  ove 
i  tinged  ths-'west  . 


-.* 


THE     PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  19 


How  oft,  when  purple  evening  tinged  the  west, 
We  watched  the  emmet  to  her  grainy  nest ; 
Welcomed  the  wild-bee  home  on  weary  wing, 
Laden  with  sweets,  the  choicest  of  the  spring ! 
How  oft  inscribed,  with  Friendship's  votive  rhyme, 
The  bark  now  silvered  by  the  touch  of  Time; 
Soared  in  the  swing,  half  pleased  and  half  afraid, 
Thro'  sister  elms  that  waved  their  summer-shade ; 
Or  strewed  with  crumbs  yon  root-inwoven  seat, 
To  lure  the  redbreast  from  his  lone  retreat ! 

Childhood's  loved  group  revisits  every  scene; 
The  tangled  wood-walk,  and  the  tufted  green! 
Indulgent  MEMORY  wakes,  and  lo,  they  live ! 
Clothed  with  far  softer  hues  than  Light  can  give. 
Thou  first,  best  friend  that  Heaven  assigns  below 
To  soothe  and  sweeten  all  the  cares  we  know ; 
Whose  glad  suggestions  still  each  vain  alarm, 
When  nature  fades,  and  life  forgets  to  charm ; 
Thee  would  the  Muse  invoke! — to  thee  belong 
The  sage's  precept,  and  the  poet's  song. 
What  softened  views  thy  magic  glass  reveals, 
When  o'er  the  landscape  Time's  meek  twilight  steals ! 
As  when  in  ocean  sinks  the  orb  of  day, 
Long  on  the  wave  reflected  lustres  play; 
Thy  tempered  beams  of  happiness  resigned 
Glance  on  the  darkened  mirror  of  the  mind. 

The  School's  lone  porch,  with  reverend  mosses  grey, 
Just  tells  the  pensive  pilgrim  where  it  lay. 
Mute  is  the  bell  that  rung  at  peep  of  dawn, 
Quickening  my  truant-feet  across  the  lawn ; 
Unheard  the  shout  that  rent  the  noontide  air, 
When  the  slow  dial  gave  a  pause  to  care. 


20  THE    PLEASUKES    OF    MEMORY. 

Up  springs,  at  every  step,  to  claim  a  tear, 
Some  little  friendship  formed  and  cherished  here; 
And  not  the  lightest  leaf,  hut  trembling  teems 
With  golden  visions,  and  romantic  dreams ! 

Down  by  yon  hazel  copse,  at  evening,  blazed 
The  Gipsy's  fagot  —  there  we  stood  and  gazed; 
Gazed  on  her  sun-burnt  face  with  silent  awe, 
Her  tattered  mantle,  and  her  hood  of  straw; 
Her  moving  lips,  her  caldron  brimming  o'er; 
The  drowsy  brood  that  on  her  back  she  bore, 
Imps,  in  the  barn  with  mousing  owlet  bred, 
From  rifled  roost  at  nightly  revel  fed ; 
Whose  dark  eyes  flashed  thro'  locks  of  blackest  shade, 
When  in  the  breeze  the  distant  watch-dog  bayed :  — 
And  heroes  fled  the  Sibyl's  muttered  call, 
Whose  elfin  prowess  scaled  the  orchard-wall. 
As  o'er  my  palm  the  silver  piece  she  drew, 
And  traced  the  line  of  life  with  searching  view, 
How  throbbed  my  fluttering  pulse  with  hopes  and  fears, 
To  learn  the  colour  of  my  future  years ! 

Ah,  then,  what  honest  triumph  flushed  my  breast; 
This  truth  once  known  —  To  bless  is  to  be  blest ! 
We  led  the  bending  beggar  on  his  way, 
(Bare  were  his  feet,  his  tresses  silver-grey) 
Soothed  the  keen  pangs  his  aged  spirit  felt, 
And  on  his  tale  with  mute  attention  dwelt. 
As  in  his  script  we  dropped  our  little  store, 
And  sighed  to  think  that  little  was  no  more, 
He  breathed  his  prayer,  "  Long  may  such  goodness  live !" 
'Twas  all  he  gave,  'twas  all  he  had  to  give. 
Angels,  when  Mercy's  mandate  winged  their  flight, 
Had  stopt  to  dwell  with  pleasure  on  the  sight. 


THE    PLEASURES    OF    ME  MOBY.  21 

But  hark !  thro'  those  old  firs,  with  sullen  swell, 
The  church-clock  strikes !  ye  tender  scenes,  farewell ! 
It  calls  me  hence,  heneath  their  shade,  to  trace 
The  few  fond  lines  that  Time  may  soon  efface. 

On  yon  grey  stone,  that  fronts  the  chancel-door, 
Worn  smooth  hy  husy  feet  now  seen  no  more, 
Each  eve  we  shot  the  marble  thro'  the  ring, 
When  the  heart  danced,  and  life  was  in  its  spring ; 
Alas !  unconscious  of  the  kindred  earth, 
That  faintly  echoed  to  the  voice  of  mirth. 

The  glow-worm  loves  her  emerald-light  to  shed, 
Where  now  the  sexton  rests  his  hoary  head. 
Oft,  as  he  turned  the  greensward  with  his  spade, 
He  lectured  every  youth  that  round  him  played; 
And,  calmly  pointing  where  our  fathers  lay, 
Roused  us  to  rival  each,  the  hero  of  his  day. 

Hush,  ye  fond  flutterings,  hush!  while  here  alone 
I  search  the  records  of  each  mouldering  stone. 
Guides  of  my  life !  Instructors  of  my  youth ! 
Who  first  unveiled  the  hallowed  form  of  Truth; 
Whose  every  word  enlightened  and  endeared; 
In  age  beloved,  in  poverty  revered; 
In  Friendship's  silent  register  ye  live, 
Nor  ask  the  vain  memorial  Art  can  give. 

But  when  the  sons  of  peace,  of  pleasure  sleep, 
When  only  Sorrow  wakes,  and  wakes  to  weep, 
What  spells  entrance  my  visionary  mind 
With  sighs  so  sweet,  with  transports  so  refined? 

Ethereal  Power !  who  at  the  noon  of  night 
Recall'st  the  far-fled  spirit  of  delight; 
From  whom  that  musing,  melancholy  mood 
Which  charms  the  wise,  and  elevates  the  good; 


* 

?} 


22  THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 

Blest  MEMORY,  hail!  Oh  grant  the  grateful  Muse, 
Her  pencil  dipt  in  Nature's  living  hues, 
To  pass  the  clouds  that  round  thy  empire  roll, 
And  trace  its  airy  precincts  in  the  soul. 

Lulled  in  the  countless  chambers  of  the  brain, 
Our  thoughts  are  linked  by  many  a  hidden  chain. 
Awake  but  one,  and  lo,  what  myriads  rise  !  * 
Each  stamps  its  image  as  the  other  flies. 
Each,  as  the  various  avenues  of  sense 
Delight  or  sorrow  to  the  soul  dispense, 
Brightens  or  fades;  yet  all,  with  magiq  art 
Control  the  latent  fibres  of  the  heart. 
As  studious  PROSPERO'S  mysterious  spell 
Drew  every  subject-spirit  to  his  cell; 
Each,  at  thy  call,  advances  or  retires, 
As  judgment  dictates,  or  the  scene  inspires. 
Each  thrills  the  seat  of  sense,  that  sacred  source 
Whence  the  fine  nerves  direct  their  mazy  course, 
And  thro'  the  frame  invisibly  convey 
The  subtle,  quick  vibrations  as  they  play; 
Man's  little  universe  at  once  o'ercast, 
At  once  illumined  when  the  cloud  is  past. 

Survey  the  globe,  each  ruder  realm  explore  ; 
From  Reason's  faintest  ray  to  NEWTON  soar. 
What  different  spheres  to  human  bliss  assigned! 
What  slow  gradations  in  the  scale  of  mind  ! 

mark  in  each  these  mystic  wonders  wrought; 
Oh  mark  the  sleepless  energies  of  thought  ! 

}  '  \r^ 

J7      *  Namque  illic  posuit  solium,  et  sua  templa  sacravit, 
Mens  animi:  hanc  circum  coeunt,  densoque  feruntur 
Agmine  notitiaa,  simulacraque  tenuia  rerum. 


THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  23 

The  adventurous  boy,  that  asks  his  little  share, 
And  hies  from  home  with  many  a  gossip's  prayer, 
Turns  on  the  neighbouring  hill,  once  more  to  see 
The  dear  abode  of  peace  and  privacy ; 
And  as  he  turns,  the  thatch  among  the  trees, 
The  smoke's  blue  wreaths  ascending  with  the  breeze, 
The  village-common  spotted  white  with  sheep, 
The  church-yard  yews  round  which  his  fathers  sleep ; 
All  rouse  Reflection's  sadly-pleasing  train, 
And  oft  he  looks  and  weeps,  and  looks  again. 

So,  when  the  mild  TUPIA  dared  explore 
Arts  yet  untaught,  and  worlds  unknown  before, 
And,  with  the  sons  of  Science,  wooed  the  gale 
That,  rising,  swelled  their  strange  expanse  of  sail; 
So,  when  he  breathed  his  firm  yet  fond  adieu, 
Borne  from  his  leafy  hut,  his  carved  canoe, 
And  all  his  soul  best  loved  —  such  tears  he  shed, 
While  each  soft  scene  of  summer-beauty  fled. 
Long  o'er  the  wave  a  wistful  look  he  cast, 
Long  watched  the  streaming  signal  from  the  mast; 
Till  twilight's  dewy  tints  deceived  his  eye, 
And  fairy-forests  fringed  the  evening-sky. 

So  Scotia's  Queen,  as  slowly  dawned  the  day, 
Rose  on  her  couch,  and  gazed  her  soul  away. 
Her  eyes  had  blessed  the  beacon's  glimmering  height, 
That  faintly  tipt  the  feathery  surge  with  light ; 
But  now  the  morn  with  orient  hues  pourtrayed 
Each  castled  cliff,  and  brown  monastic  shade : 
All  touched  the  talisman's  resistless  spring, 
And  lo,  what  busy  tribes  were  instant  on  the  wing ! 

Thus  kindred  objects  kindred  thoughts  inspire,' 
As  summer-clouds  flash  forth  electric  fire. 


24  THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 

And  hence  this  spot  gives  back  the  joys  of  youth, 

Warm  as  the  life,  and  with  the  mirror's  truth. 

Hence  home-felt  pleasure  prompts  the  Patriot's  sigh; 

This  makes  him  wish  to  live,  and  dare  to  die. 

For  this  young  FOSCARI,  whose  hapless  fate 

Venice  should  blush  to  hear  the  Muse  relate, 

When  exile  wore  his  blooming  years  away, 

To  sorrow's  long  soliloquies  a  prey, 

When  reason,  justice,  vainly  urged  his  cause, 

For  this  he  roused  her  sanguinary  laws; 

Glad  to  return,  tho'  Hope  could  grant  no  more, 

And  chains  and  torture  hailed  him  to  the  shore. 

And  hence  the  charm  historic  scenes  impart; 
Hence  Tiber  awes,  and  Avon  melts  the  heart. 
Ae'riel  forms  in  Tempe's  classic  vale 
Glance  thro'  the  gloom  and  whisper  in  the  gale; 
In  wild  Vaucluse  with  love  and  LAURA  dwell, 
And  watch  and  weep  in  ELOISA'S  cell. 
'Twas  ever  thus.     Young  AMMON,  when  he  sought 
Where  Ilium  stood,  and  where  PELIDES  fought, 
Sate  at  the  helm  himself.     No  meaner  hand 
Steered  thro'  the  waves :  and,  when  he  struck  the  land, 
Such  in  his  soul  the  ardour  to  explore, 
PELiDES-like,  he  leaped  the  first  ashore. 
'Twas  ever  thus.     As  now  at  VIRGIL'S  tomb 
We  bless  the  shade,  and  bid  the  verdure  bloom: 
So  TULLY  paused,  amid  the  wrecks  of  Time, 
On  the  rude  stone  to  trace  the  truth  sublime; 
When  at  his  feet,  in  honoured  dust  disclosed, 
The  immortal  sage  of  Syracuse  reposed. 
And  as  he  long  in  sweet  delusion  hung, 
Where  once  a  PLATO  taught,  a  PINDAR  sung; 


THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  25 

"Who  now  but  meets  him  musing,  when  he  roves 
His  ruined  Tusculan's  romantic  groves  ? 
In  Rome's  great  forum,  who  but  hears  him  roll 
His  moral  thunders  o'er  the  subject  soul? 

And  hence  that  calm  delight  the  portrait  gives: 
We  gaze  on  every  feature  till  it  lives ! 
Still  the  fond  lover  sees  the  absent  maid; 
And  the  lost  friend  still  lingers  in  his  shade ! 
Say  why  the  pensive  widow  loves  to  weep, 
When  on  her  knee  she  rocks  her  babe  to  sleep : 
Tremblingly  still,  she  lifts  his  veil  to  trace 
The  father's  features  in  his  infant  face. 
The  hoary  grandsire  smiles  the  hour  away, 
Won  by  the  raptures  of  a  game  at  play; 
He  bends  to  meet  each  artless  burst  of  joy, 
Forgets  his  age,  and  acts  again  the  boy. 

What  tho'  the  iron  school  of  War  erase 
Each  milder  virtue,  and  each  softer  grace; 
What  tho'  the  fiend's  torpedo-touch  arrest 
Each  gentler,  finer  impulse  of  the  breast; 
Still  shall  this  active  principle  preside, 
And  wake  the  tear  to  Pity's  self  denied. 

The  intrepid  Swiss,  who  guards  a  foreign  shore, 
Condemned  to  climb  his  mountain-cliffs  no  more, 
If  chance  he  hears  that  song  so  sweet,  so  wild, 
His  heart  would  spring  to  hear  it  when  a  child, 
Melts  at  the  long-lost  scenes  that  round  him  rise, 
And  sinks  a  martyr  to  repentant  sighs. 

Ask  not  if  courts  or  camps  dissolve  the  charm : 
Say  why  VESPASIAN  loved  his  Sabine  farm; 
Why  great  NAVARRE,  when  France  and  freedom  bled, 
Sought  the  lone  limits  of  a  forest-shed. 
3  D 


26  THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 

When  DIOCLETIAN'S  self-corrected  mind 

The  imperial  fasces  of  a  world  resigned, 

Say  why  we  trace  the  labours  of  his  spade 

In  calm  Salona's  philosophic  shade. 

Say,  when  contentious  CHARLES  renounced  a  throne, 

To  muse  with  monks  unlettered  and  unknown, 

What  from  his  soul  the  parting  tribute  drew? 

What  claimed  the  sorrows  of  a  last  adieu? 

The  still  retreats  that  soothed  his  tranquil  breast 

Ere  grandeur  dazzled,  and  its  cares  oppressed. 

Undamped  by  time,  the  generous  Instinct  glows 
Far  as  Angola's  sands,  as  Zembla's  snows; 
Glows  in  the  tiger's  den,  the  serpent's  nest, 
On  every  form  of  varied  life  imprest. 
The  social  tribes  its  choicest  influence  hail:  — 
And  when  the  drum  beats  briskly  in  the  gale, 
The  war-worn  courser  charges  at  the  sound, 
And  with  young  vigour  wheels  the  pasture  round. 

Oft  has  the  aged  tenant  of  the  vale 
Leaned  on  his  staff  to  lengthen  out  the  tale ; 
Oft  have  his  lips  the  grateful  tribute  breathed, 
From  sire  to  son  with  pious  zeal  bequeathed. 
When  o'er  the  blasted  heath  the  day  declined, 
And  on  the  scathed  oak  warred  the  winter-wind; 
When  not  a  distant  taper's  twinkling  ray 
Gleamed  o'er  the  furze  to  light  him  on  his  way ; 
When  not  a  sheep-bell  soothed  his  listening  ear, 
And  the  big  rain-drops  told  the  tempest  near; 
Then  did  his  horse  the  homeward  track  descry, 
The  track  that  shunned  his  sad,  inquiring  eye; 
And  win  each  wavering  purpose  to  relent, 
With  warmth  so  mild,  so  gently  violent, 


THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  27 

That  his  charmed  hand  the  careless  rein  resigned, 
And  doubts  and  terrors  vanished  from  his  mind. 

Recall  the  traveller,  whose  altered  form 
Has  borne  the  buffet  of  the  mountain-storm ; 
And  who  will  first  his  fond  impatience  meet? 
His  faithful  dog 's  already  at  his  feet ! 
Yes,  tho'  the  porter  spurn  him  from  the  door, 
Tho'  all,  that  knew  him,  know  his  face  no  more, 
His  faithful  dog  shall  tell  his  joy  to  each, 
With  that  mute  eloquence  which  passes  speech. — 
And  see,  the  master  but  returns  to  die ! 
Yet  who  shall  bid  the  watchful  servant  fly? 
The  blasts  of  heaven,  the  drenching  dews  of  earth, 
The  wanton  insults  of  unfeeling  mirth, 
These,  when  to  guard  Misfortune's  sacred  grave, 
Will  firm  Fidelity  exult  to  brave. 

Led  by  what  chart,  transports  the  timid  dove 
The  wreaths  of  conquest,  or  the  vows  of  love? 
Say,  thro'  the  clouds  what  compass  points  her  flight  ? 
Monarchs  have  gazed,  and  nations  blessed  the  sight. 
Pile  rocks  on  rocks,  bid  woods  and  mountains  rise, 
Eclipse  her  native  shades,  her  native  skies :  — 
'Tis  vain !  thro'  Ether's  pathless  wilds  she  goes, 
And  lights  at  last  where  all  her  cares  repose. 

Sweet  bird !  thy  truth  shall  Harlem's  walls  attest, 
And  unborn  ages  consecrate  thy  nest. 
When,  with  the  silent  energy  of  grief, 
With  looks  that  asked,  yet  dared  not  hope  relief, 
Want  with  her  babes  round  generous  Valour  clung 
To  wring  the  slow  surrender  from  his  tongue, 
'Twas  thine  to  animate  her  closing  eye ;  T 

Alas !  'twas  thine  perchance  the  first  to  die,    [the  sky.  i- 
Crushed  by  her  meagre  hand,  when  welcomed  fromJ 


28  THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 

Hark !  the  bee  winds  her  small  hut  mellow  horn, 
Blithe  to  salute  the  sunny  smile  of  morn. 
O'er  thymy  downs  she  bends  her  busy  course, 
And  many  a  stream  allures  her  to  its  source. 
'Tis  noon,  'tis  night.     That  eye  so  finely  wrought, 
Beyond  the  search  of  sense,  the  soar  of  thought, 
Now  vainly  asks  the  scenes  she  left  behind; 
Its  orb  so  full,  its  vision  so  confined ! 
Who  guides  the  patient  pilgrim  to  her  cell? 
Who  bids  her  soul  with  conscious  triumph  swell  ? 
With  conscious  truth,  retrace  the  mazy  clue 
Of  summer-scents,  that  charmed  her  as  she  flew  ? 
Hail,  MEMORY,  hail !  thy  universal  reign 
Guards  the  least  link  of  Being's  glorious  chain. 


PART  II. 


Delle  cose  custode  e  dispensiera. 

TASSO. 


ANALYSIS  OF  THE  SECOND  PART. 

THE  Memory  has-  hitherto  acted  only  in  subservience 
to  the  sensed,  and  so  far  man  is  not  eminently  distin- 
guished from  other  animals :  but,  with  respect  to  man, 
she  has  a  higher  province ;  and  is  often  busily  employed, 
when  excited  by  no  external  cause  whatever.  She 
preserves,  for  his  use,  the  treasures  of  art  and  science, 
history  and  philosophy.  She  colours  all  the  prospects 
of  life ;  for  we  can  only  anticipate  the  future,  by  con- 
cluding what  is  possible  from  what  is  past.  On  her 
agency  depends  every  effusion  of  the  Fancy,  who  with 
the  boldest  effort  can  only  compound  or  transpose,  aug- 
ment or  diminish  the  materials  which  she  has  collected 
and  still  retains. 

When  the  first  emotions  of  despair  have  subsided,  and 
sorrow  has  softened  into  melancholy,  she  amuses  with  a 
retrospect  of  innocent  pleasures,  and  inspires  that  noble 
confidence  which  results  from  the  consciousness  of  having 
acted  well.  When  sleep  has  suspended  the  organs  of 
sense  from  their  office,  she  not  only  supplies  the  mind 
with  images,  but  assists  in  their  combination.  And  even 
3  *  (29) 


30  THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 

in  madness  itself,  when  the  soul  is  resigned  over  to  the 
tyranny  of  a  distempered  imagination,  she  revives  past 
perceptions,  and  awakens  that  train  of  thought  which 
was  formerly  most  familiar. 

Nor  are  we  pleased  only  with  a  review  of  the  brighter 
passages  of  life.  Events,  the  most  distressing  in  their 
immediate  consequences,  are  often  cherished  in  remem- 
brance with  a  degree  of  enthusiasm. 

But  the  world  and  its  occupations  give  a  mechanical 
impulse  to  the  passions,  which  is  not  very  favourable  to 
the  indulgence  of  this  feeling.  It  is  in  a  calm  and  well- 
regulated  mind  that  the  Memory  is  most  perfect;  and 
solitude  is  her  best  sphere  of  action.  With  this  senti- 
ment is  introduced  a  Tale  illustrative  of  her  influence  in 
solitude,  sickness,  and  sorrow.  And  the  subject  having 
now  been  considered,  so  far  as  it  relates  to  man  and  the 
animal  world,  the  Poem  concludes  with  a  conjecture  that 
superior  beings  are  blest  with  a  nobler  exercise  of  this 
faculty. 


SWEET  MEMORY,  wafted  by  thy  gentle  gale, 
Oft  up  the  stream  of  Time  I  turn  my  sail, 
To  view  the  fairy-haunts  of  long-lost  hours, 
Blest  with  far  greener  shades,  far  fresher  flowers. 

Ages  and  climes  remote  to  Thee  impart 
What  charms  in  Genius,  and  refines  in  Art ; 
Thee,  in  whose  hand  the  keys  of  Science  dwell, 
The  pensive  portress  of  her  holy  cell ; 
Whose  constant  vigils  chase  the  chilling  damp 
Oblivion  steals  upon  her  vestal-lamp. 


THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  31 

They  in  their  glorious  course  the  guides  of  Youth, 
Whose  language  breathed  the  eloquence  of  Truth ; 
Whose  life,  beyond  preceptive  wisdom,  taught 
The  great  in  conduct,  and  the  pure  in  thought ; 
These  still  exist,  by  Thee  to  Fame  consigned, 
Still  speak  and  act,  the  models  of  mankind. 

From  Thee  gay  Hope  her  airy  colouring  draws ; 
And  Fancy's  flights  are  subject  to  thy  laws. 
From  Thee  that  bosom-spring  of  rapture  flows, 
Which  only  Virtue,  tranquil  Virtue,  knows. 

When  Joy's  bright  sun  has  shed  his  evening-ray, 
And  Hope's  delusive  meteors  cease  to  pla"y; 
When  clouds  on  clouds  the  smiling  prospect  close, 
Still  thro'  the  gloom  thy  star  serenely  glows: 
Like  yon  fair  orb,  she  gilds  the  brow  of  night 
With  the  mild  magic  of  reflected  light. 

The  beauteous  maid,  who  bids  the  world  adieu, 
Oft  of  that  world  will  snatch  a  fond  review ; 
Oft  at  the  shrine  neglect  her  beads,  to  trace 
Some  social  scene,  some  dear,  familiar  face: 
And  ere,  with  iron-tongue,  the  vesper-bell, 
Bursts  thro'  the  cypress-walk,  the  convent-cell, 
Oft  will  her  warm  and  wayward  heart  revive, 
To  love  and  joy  still  tremblingly  alive; 
The  whispered  vow,  the  chaste  caress  prolong, 
Weave  the  light  dance  and  swell  the  choral  song; 
With  rapt  ear  drink  the  enchanting  serenade, 
And,  as  it  melts  along  the  moonlight  glade, 
To  each  soft  note  return  as  soft  a  sigh, 
And  bless  the  youth  that  bids  her  slumbers  fly. 

But  not  till  Time  has  calmed  the  ruflled  breast, 
Are  these  fond  dreams  of  happiness  confest. 


32  THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 

Not  till  the  rushing  winds  forget  to  rave, 

Is  Heaven's  sweet  smile  reflected  on  the  wave. 

From  Guinea's  coast  pursue  the  lessening  sail, 

And  catch  the  sounds  that  sadden  every  gale. 

Tell,  if  thou  canst,  the  sum  of  sorrows  there ;  "j 

Mark  the  fixed  gaze,  the  wild  and  frenzied  glare, 

The  racks  of  thought,  the  freezings  of  despair ! 

But  pause  not  then  —  beyond  the  western  wave, 

Go,  see  the  captive  bartered  as  a  slave ! 

Crushed  till  his  high,  heroic  spirit  bleeds, 

And  from  his  nerveless  frame  indignantly  recedes. 

Yet  here,  even  here,  with  pleasures  long  resigned, 
Lo!  MEMORY  bursts  the  twilight  of  the  mind. 
Her  dear  delusions  soothe  his  sinking  soul, 
When  the  rude  scourge  assumes  its  base  control ; 
And  o'er  Futurity's  blank  page  diffuse 
The  full  reflection  of  her  vivid  hues. 
'Tig  but  to  die,  and  then,  to  weep  no  more, 
Then  will  he  wake  on  Congo's  distant  shore; 
Beneath  his  plantain's  ancient  shade  renew 
The  simple  transports  that  with  freedom  flew; 
Catch  the  cool  breeze  that  musky  Evening  blows, 
And  quaff  the  palm's  rich  nectar  as  it  glows ; 
The  oral  tale  of  elder  time  rehearse, 
And  chant  the  rude,  traditionary  verse 
With  those,  the  loved  companions  of  his  youth, 
When  life  was  luxury,  and  friendship  truth. 

Ah !  why  should  Virtue  fear  the  frowns  of  Fate  ? 
Hers  what  no  wealth  can  buy,  no  power  create  ! 
A  little  world  of  clear  and  cloudless  day, 
Nor  wrecked  by  storms,  nor  mouldered  by  decay; 


THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  33 

A  world,  with  MEMORY'S  ceaseless  sunshine  blest, 
The  home  of  Happiness,  an  honest  breast. 

But  most  we  mark  the  wonders  of  her  reign, 
When  Sleep  has  locked  the  senses  in  her  chain. 
When  sober  Judgment  has  his  throne  resigned, 
She  smiles  away  the  chaos  of  the  mind ; 
And,  as  warm  Fancy's  bright  Elysium  glows, 
From  Her  each  image  springs,  each  colour  flows. 
She  is  the  sacred  guest !  the  immortal  friend ! 
Oft  seen  o'er  sleeping  Innocence  to  bend, 
In  that  dead  hour  of  night  to  Silence  given, 
Whispering  seraphic  visions  of  her  heaven. 

When  the  blithe  son  of  Savoy,  journeying  round 
With  humble  wares  and  pipe  of  merry  sound, 
From  his  green  vale  and  sheltered  cabin  hies, 
And  scales  the  Alps  to  visit  foreign  skies ; 
Tho'  far  below  the  forked  lightnings  play, 
And  at  his  feet  the  thunder  dies  away, 
Oft,  in  the  saddle  rudely  rocked  to  sleep, 
While  his  mule  browses  on  the  dizzy  steep, 
With  MEMORY'S  aid,  he  sits  at  home,  and  sees 
His  children  sport  beneath  their  native  trees, 
And  bends  to  hear  their  cherub-voices  call, 
O'er  the  loud  fury  of  the  torrent's  fall. 

But  can  her  smile  with  gloomy  Madness  dwell  ? 
Say,  can  she  chase  the  horrors  of  his  cell  ? 
Each  fiery  flight  on  Frenzy's  wing  restrain, 
And  mould  the  coinage  of  the  fevered  brain? 

Pass  but  that  grate,  which   scarce  a  gleam  supplies, 
There  in  the  dust  the  wreck  of  Genius  lies ! 
He,  whose  arresting  hand  divinely  wrought 
Each  bold  conception  in  the  sphere  of  thought; 

E 


34  THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 

And  round,  in  colours  of  the  rainbow,  threw 
Forms  ever  fair,  creations  ever  new ! 
But,  as  he  fondly  snatched  the  wreath  of  fame, 
The  spectre  Poverty  unnerved  his  frame. 
Cold  was  her  grasp,  a  withering  scowl  she  wore ; 
And  Hope's  soft  energies  were  felt  no  more. 
Yet  still  how  sweet  the  soothings  of  his  art ! 
From  the  rude  wall  what  bright  ideas  start ! 
Even  now  he  claims  the  amaranthine  wreath, 
With  scenes  that  glow,  with  images  that  breathe! 
And  whence  these  scenes,  these  images,  declare. 
Whence  but  from  Her  who  triumphs  o'er  despair  ? 

Awake,  arise !  with  grateful  fervour  fraught, 
Go,  spring  the  mine  of  elevating  thought. 
He,  who,  thro'  Nature's  various  walk,  surveys 
The  good  and  fair  her  faultless  line  pourtrays ; 
Whose  mind,  profaned  by  no  unhallowed  guest, 
Culls  from  the  crowd  the  purest  and  the  best; 
May  range,  at  will,  bright  Fancy's  golden  clime, 
Or,  musing,  mount  where  Science  sits  sublime, 
Or  wake  the  Spirit  of  departed  Time. 
Who  acts  thus  wisely,  mark  the  moral  Muse, 
A  blooming  Eden  in  his  life  reviews ! 
So  rich  the  culture,  tho'  so  small  the  space, 
Its  scanty  limits  he  forgets  to  trace. 
But  the  fond  fool,  when  evening  shades  the  sky, 
Turns  but  to  start,  and  gazes  but  to  sigh! 
The  weary  waste,  that  lengthened  as  he  ran, 
Fades  to  a  blank,  and  dwindles  to  a  span ! 

Ah !  who  can  tell  the  triumphs  of  the  mind, 
By  truth  illumined,  and  by  taste  refined? 


THE    PLEASUEES    OF    MEMORY.  35 

When  age  has  quenched  the  eye,  and  closed  the  ear, 
Still  nerved  for  action  in  her  native  sphere, 
Oft  will  she  rise  —  with  searching  glance  pursue 
Some  long-loved  image  vanished  from  her  view; 
Dart  thro'  the  deep  recesses  of  the  past, 
O'er  dusky  forms  in  chains  of  slumber  cast ; 
With  giant-grasp  fling  back  the  folds  of  night, 
And  snatch  the  faithless  fugitive  to  light. 
So  thro'  the  grove  the  impatient  mother  flies, 
Each  sunless  glade,  each  secret  pathway  tries ; 
Till  the  thin  leaves  the  truant  boy  disclose, 
Long  on  the  wood-moss  stretched  in  sweet  repose. 

Nor  yet  to  pleasing  objects  are  confined 
The  silent  feasts  of  the  reflecting  mind. 
Danger  and  death  a  dread  delight  inspire; 
And  the  bald  veteran  glows  with  wonted  fire, 
When,  richly  bronzed  by  many  a  summer-sun, 
He  counts  his  scars,  and  tells  what  deeds  were  done. 

Go,  with  old  Thames,  view  Chelsea's  glorious  pile, 
And  ask  the  shattered  hero,  whence  his  smile  ? 
Go,  view  the  splendid  domes  of  Greenwich  —  Go, 
And  own  what  raptures  from  Reflection  flow. 

Hail,  noblest  structures  imaged  in  the  wave ! 
A  nation's  grateful  tribute  to  the  brave. 
Hail,  blest  retreats  from  war  and  shipwreck,  hail ! 
That  oft  arrest  the  wondering  stranger's  sail. 
Long  have  ye  heard  the  narratives  of  age, 
The  battle's  havoc,  and  the  tempest's  rage ; 
Long  have  ye  known  Reflection's  genial  ray 
Gild  the  calm  close  of  Valour's  various  day. 

Time's  sombrous  touches  soon  correct  the  piece, 
Mellow  each  tint,  and  bid  each  discord  cease : 


36  THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 

A  softer  tone  of  light  pervades  the  whole, 
And  steals  a  pensive  languor  o'er  the  soul. 

Hast  thou  thro'  Eden's  wild-wood  vales  pursued 
Each  mountain-scene,  majestically  rude ; 
To  note  the  sweet  simplicity  of  life, 
Far  from  the  din  of  Folly's  idle  strife ; 
Nor  there  awhile,  with  lifted  eye,  revered 
That  modest  stone  which  pious  PEMBROKE  reared ; 
Which  still  records,  beyond  the  pencil's  power, 
The  silent  sorrows  of  a  parting  hour; 
Still  to  the  musing  pilgrim  points  the  place 
Her  sainted  spirit  most  delights  to  trace  ? 

Thus,  with  the  manly  glow  of  honest  pride, 
O'er  his  dead  son  the  gallant  ORMOXD  sighed. 
Thus,  thro'  the  gloom  of  SHENSTONl'8  fairy-grove, 
MARIA'S  urn  still  breathes  the  voice  of  love. 

As  the  stern  grandeur  of  a  Gothic  tower 
Awes  us  less  deeply  in  its  morning-hour, 
Than  when  the  shades  of  Time  serenely  fall 
On  every  broken  arch  and  ivied  wall; 
The  tender  images  we  love  to  trace, 
Steal  from  each  year  a  melancholy  grace ! 
And  as  the  sparks  of  social  love  expand, 
As  the  heart  opens  in  a  foreign  land; 
And,  with  a  brother's  warmth,  a  brother's  smile, 
The  stranger  greets  each  native  of  his  isle ; 
So  scenes  of  life,  when  present  and  confest, 
Stamp  but  their  bolder  features  on  the  breast; 
Yet  not  an  image,  when  remotely  viewed, 
However  trivial,  and  however  rude, 
But  wins  the  heart,  and  wakes  the  social  sigh, 
"With  every  claim  of  close  affinity ! 


THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 

But  these  pure  joys  the  world  can  never  know; 
In  gentler  climes  their  silver  currents  flow. 
Oft  at  the  silent,  shadowy  close  of  day, 
"When  the  hushed  grove  has  sung  its  parting  lay; 
When  pensive  Twilight,  in  her  dusky  car, 
Comes  slowly  on  to  meet  the  evening-star; 
Above,  below,  aerial  murmurs  swell, 
From  hanging  wood,  brown  heath,  and  bushy  dell! 
A  thousand  nameless  rills,  that  shun  the  light, 
Stealing  soft  music  on  the  ear  of  night. 
So  oft  the  finer  movements  of  the  soul, 
That  shun  the  sphere  of  Pleasure's  gay  control, 
In  the  still  shades  of  calm  Seclusion  rise, 
And  breathe  their  sweet,  seraphic  harmonies ! 

Once,  and  domestic  annals  tell  the  time, 
(Preserved  in  Cumbria's  rude,  romantic  clime) 
When  Nature  smiled,  and  o'er  the  landscape  threw 
Her  richest  fragrance,  and  her  brighest  hue, 
A  blithe  and  blooming  Forester  explored 
Those  loftier  scenes  SALVATOR'S  soul  adored ; 
The  rocky  pass  half  hung  with  shaggy  wood, 
And  the  cleft  oak  flung  boldly  o'er  the  flood; 
Nor  shunned  the  track,  unknown  to  human  tread, 
That  downward  to  the  night  of  caverns  led; 
Some  ancient  cataract's  deserted  bed. 

High  on  exulting  wing  the  heath-cock  rose, 
And  blew  his  shrill  blast  o'er  perennial  snows ; 
Ere  the  rapt  youth,  recoiling  from  the  roar, 
Gazed  on  the  tumbling  tide  of  dread  Lodore ; 
And  thro'  the  rifted  cliffs,  that  scaled  th3  sky, 
Derwent's  clear  mirror  charmed  his  dazzled  eye. 
4 


38  THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 

Each  osier  isle,  inverted  on  the  wave, 
Thro'  morn's  grey  mist  its  melting  colours  gave ; 
And,  o'er  the  cygnet's  haunt,  the  mantling  grove 
Its  emerald  arch  with  wild  luxuriance  wove. 

Light  as  the  breeze  that  brushed  the  orient  dew, 
From  rock  to  rock  the  young  Adventurer  flew; 
And  day's  last  sunshine  slept  along  the  shore, 
When  lo,  a  path  the  smile  of  welcome  wore. 
Imbowering  shrubs  with  verdure  veiled  the  sky, 
And  on  the  musk-rose  shed  a  deeper  dye ; 
Save  when  a  bright  and  momentary  gleam 
Glanced  from  the  white  foam  of  some  sheltered  stream. 

O'er  the  still  lake  the  bell  of  evening  tolled, 
And  on  the  moor  the  shepherd  penned  his  fold; 
And  on  the  green  hill's  side  the  meteor  played ; 
When,  hark !  a  voice  sung  sweetly  thro'  the  shade. 
It  ceased — yet  still  in  FLORIO'S  fancy  sung, 
Still  on  each  note  his  captive  spirit  hung; 
Till  o'er  the  mead  a  cool,  sequestered  grot 
From  its  rich  roof  a  sparry  lustre  shot. 
A  crystal  water  crossed  the  pebbled  floor, 
And  on  the  front  these  simple  lines  it  bore. 

Hence  away,  nor  dare  intrude! 
In  this  secret,  shadowy  cell 
Musing  MEMORY  loves  to  dwell, 
With  her  sister  Solitude. 

Far  from  the  busy  world  she  flies, 
To  taste  that  peace  the  world  denies. 
Entranced  she  sits ;  from  youth  to  age, 
Reviewing  Life's  eventful  page; 
And  noting,  ere  they  fade  away, 
The  little  lines  of  yesterday. 


THE     PLEASURES     OF    MEMORY.  39 

FlORiO  had  gained  a  rude  and  rocky  seat, 
When  lo,  the  Genius  of  this  still  retreat ! 
Fair  was  her  form  —  but  who  can  hope  to  trace 
The  pensive  softness  of  her  angel-face? 
Can  VIRGIL'S  verse,  can  RAPHAEL'S  touch  impart 
Those  finer  features  of  the  feeling  heart, 
Those  tend'rer  tints  that  shun  the  careless  eye 
And  in  the  world's  contagious  climate  die  ? 

She  left  the  cave,  nor  marked  the  stranger  there 
Her  pastoral  beauty  and  her  artless  air 
Had  breathed  a  soft  enchantment  o'er  his  soul ! 
In  every  nerve  he  felt  her  blest  control ! 
What  pure  and  white-winged  agents  of  the  sky, 
Who  rule  the  springs  of  sacred  sympathy, 
Inform  congenial  spirits  when  they  meet? 
Sweet  is  their  office,  as  their  natures  sweet ! 

FLORIO,  with  fearful  joy,  pursued  the  maid, 
Till  thro'  a  vista's  moonlight-chequered  shade, 
Where  the  bat  circled,  and  the  rooks  reposed, 
(Their  wars  suspended,  and  their  councils  closed) 
An  antique  mansion  burst  in  solemn  state, 
A  rich  vine  clustering  round  the  Gothic  gate. 
Nor  paused  he  there.     The  master  of  the  scene 
Saw  his  light  step  imprint  the  dewy  green: 
And,  slow-advancing,  hailed  him  as  his  guest, 
Won  by  the  honest  warmth  his  looks  expressed. 
He  wore  the  rustic  manners  of  a  'Squire ; 
Age  had  riot  quenched  one  spark  of  manly  fire ; 
But  giant  Gout  had  bound  him  in  her  chain, 
And  his  heart  panted  for  the  chase  in  vain. 

Yet  here  Remembrance,  sweetly-soothing  Power! 
Winged  with  delight  Confinement's  lingering  hour. 


40  THE    PLEASURES    01'    MEMORY. 

The  fox's  brush  still  emulous  to  wear, 

He  scoured  the  country  in  his  elbow-chair ; 

And,  with  view-hallow,  roused  the  dreaming  hound, 

That  rung,  by  starts,  his  deep-toned  music  round. 

Long  by  the  paddock's  humble  pale  confined, 
His  aged  hunters  coursed  the  viewless  wind: 
And  each,  with  glowing  energy  portrayed, 
The  far-famed  triumphs  of  the  field  displayed; 
Usurped  the  canvas  of  the  crowded  hall, 
And  chased  a  line  of  heroes  from  the  wall. 
There  slept  the  horn  each  jocund  echo  knew, 
And  many  a  smile  and  many  a  story  drew ! 
High  o'er  the  hearth  his  forest-trophies  hung, 
And  their  fantastic  branches  wildly  flung. 
How  would  he  dwell  on  the  vast  antlers  there ! 
These  dashed  the  wave,  those  fanned  the  mountain-air. 
All,  as  they  frowned,  unwritten  records  bore 
Of  gallant  feats  and  festivals  of  yore. 

But  why  the  tale  prolong?  —  His  only  child, 
His  darling  Julia  on  the  stranger  smil'd. 
Her  little  arts  a  fretful  sire  to  please, 
Her  gentle  gaiety,  and  native  ease 
Had  won  his  soul;  and  rapturous  Fancy  shed 
Her  golden  lights,  and  tints  of  rosy  red : 
But  ah !  few  days  had  pass'd,  ere  the  bright  vision  fled  !. 

When  evening  tinged  the  lake's  ethereal  blue, 
And  her  deep  shades  irregularly  threw; 
Their  shifting  sail  dropt  gently  from  the  cove, 
Down  by  St.  Herbert's  consecrated  grove; 
Whence  erst  the  chanted  hymn,  the  taper'd  rite 
Amused  the  fisher's  solitary  night: 


NT 

rjl 


"When  evening  tingedthe  lake's  ethereal  Hue, 
And  hex  deep  shades  iriegtilailr  threw, 
TKeii  shifting  sail  dropt  geiLtly from. the  cove. 
Down  by  St  Herbert's  consecratedgiove  " 


» 

"*    . 


"'** « 

# 


THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  41 

And  still  the  mitred  window,  richly  wreathed, 
A  sacred  calm  thro'  the  brown  foliage  breathed. 

The  wild  deer,  starting  thro'  the  silent  glade, 
With  fearful  gaze  their  various  course  surveyed. 
High  hung  in  air,  the  hoary  goat  reclined, 
His  streaming  beard  the  sport  of  every  wind; 
And,  while  the  coot  her  jet-wing  loved  to  lave, 
Rocked  on  the  bosom  of  the  sleepless  wave ; 
The  eagle  rushed  from  Skiddaw's  purple  crest, 
A  cloud  still  brooding  o'er  her  giant-nest. 

And  now  the  moon  had  dimmed  with  dewy  ray 
The  few  fine  flushes  of  departing  day. 
O'er  the  wide  water's  deep  serene  she  hung, 
And  her  broad  lights  on  every  mountain  flung; 
When  lo !  a  sudden  blast  the  vessel  blew, 
And  to  the  surge  consigned  the  little  crew. 
All,  all  escaped  —  but  ere  the  lover  bore 
His  faint  and  faded  JULIA  to  the  shore, 
Her  sense  had  fled! — Exhausted  by  the  storm, 
A  fatal  trance  hung  o'er  her  pallid  form ; 
Her  closing  eye  a  trembling  lustre  fired; 
'Twas  life's  last  spark  —  it  fluttered  and  expired! 
The  father  strewed  his  white  hairs  in  the  wind, 
Called  on  his  child  —  nor  lingered  long  behind: 
And  FLORIO  lived  to  see  the  willow  wave, 
With  many  an  evening-whisper,  o'er  their  grave. 
Yes,  FLORIO  lived — and,  still  of  each  possessed, 
The  father  cherished,  and  the  maid  caressed ! 

For  ever  would  the  fond  enthusiast  rove, 
With  JULIA'S  spirit,  thro'  the  shadowy  grove; 
Gaze  with  delight  on  every  scene  she  planned, 
Kiss  every  floweret  planted  by  her  hand. 
4*  F 


42  THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 

Ah !  still  he  traced  her  steps  along  the  glade, 
When  hazy  hues  and  glimmering  lights  betrayed 
Half-viewless  forms;  still  listened  as  the  breeze 
Heaved  its  deep  sobs  among  the  aged  trees ; 
And  at  each  pause  her  melting  accents  caught, 
In  sweet  delirium  of  romantic  thought ! 
Dear  was  the  grot  that  shunned  the  blaze  of  day; 
She  gave  its  spars  to  shoot  a  trembling  ray. 
The  spring,  that  bubbled  from  its  inmost  cell, 
Murmured  of  JULIA'S  virtues  as  it  fell; 
And  o'er  the  dripping  moss,  the  fretted  stone, 
In  FLORIO'S  ear  breathed  language  not  its  own. 
Her  charm  around  the  enchantress  MEMORY  threw, 
A  charm  that  soothes  the  mind,  and  sweetens  too ! 

But  is  Her  Magic  only  felt  below  ? 
Say,  thro'  what  brighter  realms  she  bids  it  flow ; 
To  what  pure  beings,  in  a  nobler  sphere, 
She  yields  delight  but  faintly  imaged  here ; 
All  that  till  now  their  apt  researches  knew, 
Not  called  in  slow  succession  to  review ; 
But,  as  a  landscape  meets  the  eye  of  day, 
At  once  presented  to  their  glad  survey ! 

Each  scene  of  bliss  revealed,  since  chaos  fled, 
And  dawning  light  its  dazzling  glories  spread ; 
Each  chain  of  wonders  that  sublimely  glowed, 
Since  first  Creation's  choral  anthem  flowed ; 
Each  ready  flight,  at  Mercy's  call  divine, 
To  distant  worlds  that  undiscovered  shine; 
Full  on  her  tablet  flings  its  living  rays, 
And  all,  combined,  with  blest  effulgence  blaze. 

There  thy  bright  train,  immortal  Friendship,  soar; 
No  more  to  part,  to  mingle  tears  no  more! 


THE     PLEASURES     OF     MEMORY.  43 

And,  as  the  softening  hand  of  Time  endears 

The  joys  and  sorrows  of  our  infant-years, 

So  there  the  soul,  released  from  human  strife, 

Smiles  at  the  little  cares  and  ills  of  life; 

Its  lights  and  shades,  its  sunshine  and  its  showers; 

As  at  a  dream  that  charmed  her  vacant  hours ! 

Oft  may  the  spirits  of  the  dead  descend 
To  watch  the  silent  slumhers  of  a  friend ; 
To  hover  round  his  evening-walk  unseen ; 
And  hold  sweet  converse  on  the  dusky  green ; 
To  hail  the  spot  where  first  their  friendship  grew, 
And  heaven  and  nature  opened  to  their  view ! 
Oft,  when  he  trims  his  cheerful  hearth,  and  sees 
A  smiling  circle  emulous  to  please ; 
There  may  these  gentle  guests  delight  to  dwell, 
And  bless  the  scene  they  loved  in  life  so  well ! 

Oh  thou !  with  whom  my  heart  was  wont  to  share 
From  Reason's  dawn  each  pleasure  and  each  care; 
With  whom,  alas !  I  fondly  hoped  to  know 
The  humble,  walks  of  happiness  below; 
If  thy  blest  nature  now  unites  above 
An  angel's  pity  with  a  brother's  love, 
Still  o'er  my  life  preserve  thy  mild  control, 
Correct  my  views,  and  elevate  my  soul ; 
Grant  me  thy  peace  and  purity  of  mind, 
Devout  yet  cheerful,  active  yet  resigned; 
Grant  me,  like  thee,  whose  heart  knew  no  disguise, 
Whose  blameless  wishes  never  aimed  to  rise, 
To  meet  the  changes  Time  and  Chance  present, 
With  modest  dignity  and  calm  content. 
When  thy  last  breath,  ere  Nature  sunk  to  rest, 
Thy  meek  submission  to  thy  God  expressed ; 


44  THE     PLEASURES     OF    MEMORY. 

When  thy  last  look,  ere  thought  and  feeling  fled, 
A  mingled  gleam  of  hope  and  triumph  shed ; 
What  to  thy  soul  its  glad  assurance  gave, 
Its  hope  in  death,  its  triumph  o'er  the  grave? 
The  sweet  Remembrance  of  unblemished  youth, 
The  still  inspiring  voice  of  Innocence  and  Truth ! 

Hail,  MEMORY,  hail !  in  thy  exhaustless  mine 
From  age  to  age  unnumbered  treasures  shine ! 
Thought  and  her  shadowy  brood  thy  call  obey, 
And  Place  and  Time  are  subject  to  thy  sway ! 
Thy  pleasures  most  we  feel,  when  most  alone; 
The  only  pleasures  we  can  call  our  own. 
Lighter  than  air,  Hope's  summer-visions  die, 
If  but  a  fleeting  cloud  obscure  the  sky; 
If  but  a  beam  of  sober  Reason  play, 
Lo,  Fancy's  fairy  frost-work  melts  away ! 
But  can  the  wiles  of  Art,  the  grasp  of  Power, 
Snatch  the  rich  relicts  of  a  well-spent  hour? 
These,  when  the  trembling  spirit  wings  her  flight, 
Pour  round  her  path  a  stream  of  living  light; 
And  gild  those  pure  and  perfect  realms  of  rest, 
Where  Virtue  triumphs,  and  her  sons  are  blest! 


JJnhs  to  tij*  ^Uuttm  nf 


P.  19,  1.  1. 

How  oft,  when  purple  evening  tinged  the  west, 

VIKGIL,  in  one  of  his  Eclogues,  describes  a  romantic  attachment  as 
conceived  in  such  circumstances ;  and  the  description  is  so  true  to 
nature,  that  we  must  surely  be  indebted  for  it  to  some  early  recollection. 
"You  were  little  when  I  first  saw  you.  You  were  with  your  mother 
gathering  fruit  in  our  orchard,  and  I  was  your  guide.  I  was  just 
entering  my  thirteenth  year,  and  just  able  to  reach  the  boughs  from 
the  ground." 

So  also  Zappi,  an  Italian  Poet  of  the  last  Century :  "When  I  used  to 
measure  myself  with  my  goat  and  my  goat  was  the  tallest,  even  then  I 
loved  Clori." 

P.  20,  1.  1. 
Up  springs,  at  every  step,  to  claim  a  tear, 

I  came  to  the  place  of  my  birth,  and  cried,  "The  friends  of  my 
Youth,  where  are  they?" — And  an  echo  answered,  "Where  are  they?" 
From  an  Arabic  MS. 

P.  22,  1.  7. 

Awake  but  one,  and  lo,  what  myriads  rise  ! 

When  a  traveller,  who  was  surveying  the  ruins  of  Rome,  expressed 
a  desire  to  possess  some  relic  of  its  ancient  grandeur,  Poussin,  who 
attended  him,  stooped  down,  and  gathering  up  a  handful  of  earth 
shining  with  small  grains  of  porphyry,  "  Take  this  home,"  said  he, 
"for  your  cabinet;  and  say  boldly,  Questa  e  Roma  Antica." 

(45) 


46  THE    PLEASURES     OF    MEMORY. 

P.  23,  1.  8. 

The  church-yard  yews  round  which  his  fathers  sleep  ; 
Every  man,  like  Gulliver  in  Lilliput,  is  fastened  to  some  spot  of  earth 
by  the .  thousand  small  threads  which  habit  and  association  are  con- 
tinually stealing  over  him.     Of  these,  perhaps,  one  of  the  strongest  is 
here  alluded  to. 

When  the  Canadian  Indians  were  once  solicited  to  emigrate,  "What!" 
they  replied,  "shall  we  say  to  the  bones  of  our  fathers,  Arise,  and  go 
with  us  into  a  foreign  land  ? " 

P.  23,  1.  15. 

So,  when  he  breathed  his  firm  yet  fond  adieu, 

He  wept ;  but  the  effort  that  he  made  to  conceal  his  tears,  concurred 
with  them  to  do  him  honour:  he  went  to  the  mast-head,  &c. — See 
COOK'S  First  Voyage,  book  i.  chap.  16. 

Another  very  affecting  instance  of  local  attachment  is  related  of  his 
fellow-countryman  Potaveri,  who  came  to  Europe  with  M.  de  Bougain- 
ville.— See  LES  JARDINS,  chant  ii. 

P.  23,  1.  23. 
So  Scotia's  Queen,  $c. 

Elle  se  leve  sur  son  lict,  et  se  met  a  contempler  la  France  encore,  et 
tant  qu'elle  peut." — BRANTOME. 

P.  23,  1.  31. 

Thus  kindred  objects  kindred  thoughts  inspire, 

To  an  accidental  association  may  be  ascribed  some  of  the  noblest 
efforts  of  human  genius.  The  historian  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the 
Roman  Empire  first  conceived  his  design  among  the  ruins  of  the 
Capitol ;  and  to  the  tones  of  a  Welsh  harp  are  we  indebted  for  The 
Bard  of  Gray. 

P.  24,  1.  3. 

Hence  home-felt  pleasure,  $c. 

Who  can  enough  admire  the  affectionate  attachment  of  Plutarch,  who 
thus  concludes  his  enumeration  of  the  advantages  of  a  great  city  to 
men  of  letters?  "As  to  myself,  I  live  in  a  little  town;  and  I  choose 
to  live  there,  lest  it  should  become  still  less." — Vit.  Demosth. 


THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  47 

P.  24,  1.  5. 

For  this  young  FOSCARI,  <J-c. 

He  was  suspected  of  murder,  and  at  Venice  suspicion  was  good 
evidence.  Neither  the  interest  of  the  Doge,  his  father,  nor  the  intre- 
pidity of  conscious  innocence,  which  he  exhibited  in  the  dungeon  and 
on  the  rack,  could  procure  his  acquittal.  He  was  banished  to  the 
island  of  Candia  for  life. 

But  here  his  resolution  failed  him.  At  such  a  distance  from  home 
he  could  not  live  ;  and,  as  it  was  a  criminal  offence  to  solicit  the  inter- 
cession of  any  foreign  prince,  in  a  fit  of  despair  he  addressed  a  letter 
to  the  Duke  of  Milan,  and  intrusted  it  to  a  wretch  whose  perfidy,  he 
knew,  would  occasion  his  being  remanded  a  prisoner  to  Venice. 

P.  24,  1.  13. 

And  hence  the  charm  historic  scenes  impart : 

" Whatever  withdraws  us  from  the  power  of  our  senses;  whatever 
makes  the  past,  the  distant,  or  the  future  predominate  over  the  present, 
advances  us  in  the  dignity  of  thinking  beings.  Far  from  me  and  from 
my  friends  be  such  frigid  philosophy  as  may  conduct  us  indifferent  and 
unmoved  over  any  ground  which  has  been  dignified  by  wisdom,  bravery, 
or  virtue.  That  man  is  little  to  be  envied,  whose  patriotism  would  not 
gain  force  upon  the  plain  of  Marathon,  or  whose  piety  would  not  grow 
warmer  among  the  ruins  of  lona." — JOHNSON. 

P.  24,  1.  18. 

And  watch  and  weep  in  ELOISA'S  cell. 
The  Paraclete,  founded  by  Abelard,  in  Champagne. 

P.  24,  1.  19. 
'Twos  ever  thus.     Young  AMMON,  when  he  sought 

Alexander,  when  he  crossed  the  Hellespont,  was  in  the  twenty-second 
year  of  his  age;  and  with  what  feelings  must  the  Scholar  of  Aristotle 
have  approached  the  ground  described  by  Homer  in  that  Poem  which 
had  been  his  delight  from  his  childhood,  and  which  records  the  achieve- 
ments of  Him  from  whom  he  claimed  his  descent! 

It  was  his  fancy,  if  we  may  believe  tradition,  to  take  the  tiller  from 
Mencetius,  and  be  himself  the  steersman  during  the  passage.  It  was 
his  fancy  also  to  be  the  first  to  land,  and  to  land  full-armed. — ARRIAN,  i.  11. 


48  THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 

P.  24,  1.  25. 

As  now  at  VIRGIL'S  tomb 

Vows  and  pilgrimages  are  not  peculiar  to  the  religious  enthusiast. 
Silius  Italicus  performed  annual  ceremonies  on  the  mountain  of  Posi- 
lipo ;  and  it  was  there  that  Boccaccio,  quasi  da  un  divino  estro  inspirato, 
resolved  to  dedicate  his  life  to  the  Muses. 

P.  24,  1.  27. 

So  TULLT  paused,  amid  the  wrecks  of  Time, 

When  Cicero  was  quaestor  in  Sicily,  he  discovered  the  tomb  of 
Archimedes  by  its  mathematical  inscription. —  Tusc.  Qusest.  v  23. 

P.  25,  1.  9. 

Say  why  the  pensive  icidow  loves  to  weep, 

The  influence  of  the  associating  principle  is  finely  exemplified  in  the 
faithful  Penelope,  when  she  sheds  tears  over  the  bow  of  Ulysses. — Od. 
xxi.  55. 

P.  25,  1.  26. 

If  chance  he  hears  that  song  so  sweet,  so  wild, 
His  heart  would  spring  to  hear  it.  when  a  child, 

The  celebrated  Ranz  des  Vaches;  "cet  air  si  che*ri  des  Suisses  qu'il 
fut  deTendu  sous  peine  de  mort  de  le  joucr  dans  leur  troupes,  parce 
qu'il  faisoit  fondre  en  larmes,  deserter  ou  mourir  ceux  qui  1'entendoient, 
tant  il  excitoit  en  eux  1'ardent  de"sir  de  revoir  leur  pays." — ROUSSEAU. 
The  maladie  depays  is  as  old  as  the  human  heart.  JUVENAL'S  little 
cup-bearer 

Suspirat  longo  non  visam  tempore  matrem, 
Et  casulam,  et  notos  tristis  desiderat  htcdos. 

And  the  Argive  in  the  heat  of  battle 

Dulces  morions  reminiscitur  Argos. 

Nor  is  it  extinguished  by  any  injuries,  however  cruel  they  may  be. 
Ludlow,  write  as  he  would  over  his  door  at  Vevey  *,  was  still  anxious 
to  return  home ;  and  how  striking  is  the  testimony  of  Camillus,  as  it  is 
recorded  by  Livy !  "  Equidem  fatebor  vobis,"  says  he  in  his  speech  to 

*  Omne  solum  forti  patria  est,  quia  Patrig. 


THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY.  49 

the  Roman  people,  "etsi  minus  injurise  vestrse  quam  meaa  calamitatis 
meminisse  juvat;  quum  abessem,  quotiescunque  patria  in  mentem  ve- 
niret,  haec  omnia  occurrebant,  colles,  campique,  et  Tiberis,  et  assueta 
oculis  regie,  et  hoc  coelum,  sub  quo  natus  educatusque  essem.  Quae 
vos,  Quirites,  nunc  moveant  potius  caritate  sua,  ut  maneatis  in  sede 
vestra,  quam  postea  quum  reliqueritis  ea,  macerent  desiderio." — V.  54. 

P.  25,  1.  30. 
Say  why  VESPASIAN  loved  his  Sabinefarm  ; 

This  emperor,  according  to  Suetonius,  constantly  passed  the  summer 
in  a  small  villa  near  Reate,  where  he  was  born,  and  to  which  he  would 
never  add  any  embellishment ;  ne  quid  scilicet  oculorum  consuetudini  depe- 
riret. — SUET,  in  Vit.  Vesp.  cap.  ii. 

A  similar  instance  occurs  in  the  life  of  the  venerable  Pertinax,  as 
related  by  J.  Capitolinus.  "  Posteaquam  in  Liguriam  venit,  multis 
agris  coemptis,  tabernam  paternam,  manente  formO,  priore,  infinitis  aedi- 
ficiis  circumdedit." — Hist.  August.  54. 

And  it  is  said  of  Cardinal  Richelieu,  that,  when  he  built  his  magni- 
ficent palace  on  the  site  of  the  old  family  chateau  of  Richelieu,  he 
sacrificed  its  symmetry  to  preserve  the  room  in  which  he  was  born. — 
Me"m.  de  Mile,  de  Montpensier,  i.  27. 

An  attachment  of  this  nature  is  generally  the  characteristic  of  a 
benevolent  mind;  and  a  long  acquaintance  with  the  world  cannot 
always  extinguish  it. 

"To  a  friend,"  says  John,  Duke  of  Buckingham,  "I  will  expose  my 
weakness :  I  am  oftener  missing  a  pretty  gallery  in  the  old  house  I 
pulled  down,  than  pleased  with  a  saloon  which  I  built  in  its  stead, 
though  a  thousand  times  better  in  all  respects." — See  his  letter  to  the 
D.  of  Sh. 

This  is  the  language  of  the  heart,  and  will  remind  the  reader  of 
that  good-humoured  remark  in  one  of  Pope's  letters — "  I  should  hardly 
care  to  have  an  old  post  pulled  up,  that  I  remembered  ever  since  I  was 
a  child." 

The  author  of  Telemachus  has  illustrated  this  subject,  with  equal 
fancy  and  feeling,  in  the  story  of  Alibe'e  Persan. 

P.  25,  1.  31. 

Why  great  NAVARRE,  $c. 

That  amiable   and   accomplished  monarch,   Henry  the  Fourth  of 
France,  made  an  excursion  from  his  camp,  during  the  long  siege  of 
5  G 


50  THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 

Laon,  to  dine  at  a  house  in  the  forest  of  Folambray ;  where  he  had 
often  been  regaled,  when  a  boy,  with  fruit,  milk,  and  new  cheese ;  and 
in  revisiting  which  he  promised  himself  great  pleasure. — Mem.  de 
SULLY. 

P.  26,  1.  1. 

When  DIOCLETIAN'S  self-corrected  mind 

Diocletian  retired  into  his  native  province,  and  there  amused  himself 
with  building,  planting,  and  gardening.  His  answer  to  Maxinrian  is 
deservedly  celebrated.  "If,"  said  he,  "I  could  show  him  the  cabbages 
which  I  have  planted  with  my  own  hands  at  Salona,  he  would  no  longer 
solicit  me  to  return  to  a  throne." 

P.  26,  1.  5. 

Say,  when  contentious  CHARLES,  $c. 

When  the  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth  had  executed  his  memorable 
resolution,  and  had  set  out  for  the  monastery  of  Juste",  he  stopped  a 
few  days  at  Ghent  to  indulge  that  tender  and  pleasant  melancholy, 
which  arises  in  the  mind  of  every  man  in  the  decline  of  life,  on  visiting 
the  place  of  his  birth,  and  the  objects  familiar  to  him  in  early  youth. 

P.  26,  1.  6. 

To  muse  with  monks,  $c. 

Monjes  solitaries  del  glorioso  padre  San  Geronimo,  says  Sandova. 
In  a  corner  of  the  Convent-garden  there  is  this  inscription.     En  esta 
santa  casa  de  S.  Geronimo  de  Juste",  se  retir6  a,  acabar  su  vida  Carlos 
V.  Emperador,  &c. — PONZ. 

P.  26,  1.  29. 

Then  did  his  horse  the  homeward  track  descry, 

The  memory  of  the  horse  forms  the  ground-work  of  a  pleasing  little 
romance,  entitled,  "Lai  du  Palefroi  vair." 

See  Fabliaux  du  XII,  Siecle. 

Ariosto  likewise  introduces  it  in  a  passage  full  of  truth  and  nature. 
Wheu  Bayardo  meets  Angelica  in  the  forest, 

.    .    .    ,    Va  mansueto  a  la  Donzella, 


Ch'in  Albracea  servia  gia  di  sua  mano. 

ORLANDO  FURIOSO,  i.  75. 


THE    PLEASURES     OF     MEMORY.  51 

P.  27,  1.  25. 

Sweet  bird  !  thy  truth  shall  Harlem' 's  watts  attest, 
During  the  siege  of  Harlem,  when  that  city  was  reduced  to  the  last 
extremity,  and  on  the  point  of  opening  its  gates  to  a  base  and  barba- 
rous enemy,  a  design  was  formed  to  relieve  it ;  and  the  intelligence 
was  conveyed  to  the  citizens  by  a  letter  which  was  tied  under  the  wing 
of  a  pigeon.  —  THGANCS,  Iv.  5. 

The  same  messenger  was  employed  at  the  siege  of  Mutina,  as  we  are 
informed  by  the  elder  Pliny.  — Nat.  Hist.  x.  37. 

P.  21,  1.  12. 
Hark  !  the  bee,  $c. 

This  little  animal,  from  the  extreme  convexity  of  her  eye,  cannot  see 
many  inches  before  her. 

P.  31,  1.  1. 

They  in  their  glorious  course 

True  Glory,  says  one  of  the  Ancients,  is  to  be  acquired  by  doing 
what  deserves  to  be  written,  and  writing  what  deserves  to  be  read ;  and 
by  making  the  world  the  happier  and  the  better  for  our  having  lived 
in  it. 

P.  31,  1.  5. 

These  still  exist,  $c. 

There  is  a  future  Existence  even  in  this  world,  an  Existence  in  the 
hearts  and  minds  of  those  who  shall  live  after  us.*  It  is  in  reserve  for 
every  man,  however  obscure ;  and  his  portion,  if  he  is  diligent,  must 
be  equal  to  his  desires.  For  in  whose  remembrance  can  we  wish  to 
hold  a  place,  but  such  as  know,  and  are  known  by  us?  These  are 
within  the  sphere  of  our  influence,  and  among  these  and  their  descend- 
ants we  may  live  for  evermore. 

It  is  a  state  of  rewards  and  punishments ;  and,  like  that  revealed  to 
us  in  the  Gospel,  has  the  happiest  influence  on  our  lives.  The  latter 
excites  us  to  gain  the  favour  of  GOD,  the  former  to  gain  the  love  and 
esteem  of  wise  and  good  men ;  and  both  lead  to  the  same  end ;  for,  in 
framing  our  conceptions  of  the  DEITY,  we  only  ascribe  to  Him  exalted 
degrees  of  Wisdom  and  Goodness. 

*  De  tous  les  biens  humains  c'est  le  soul  que  la  mort  ne  nous  peut  ravir. — BOSSUET. 


52  THE    PLEASURES     OF     MEMORY. 

P.  32,  1.  28. 

Ah,  why  should  Virtue  fear  the  frowns  of  Fate? 
The  highest  reward  of  Virtue  is  Virtue  herself,  as  the  severest 
punishment  of  Vice  is  Vice  herself. 

P.  34,  1.  7. 

Yet  still  how  sweet  the  soothings  of  his  art! 

The  astronomer  chalking  his  figures  on  the  wall,  in  Hogarth's  view 
of  Bedlam,  is  an  admirable  exemplification  of  this  idea.  —  See  the 
RAKE'S  PROGRESS,  plate  8. 

P.  34,  1.  27. 

Turns  but  to  start,  and  gazes  but  to  sigh  I 

The  following  stanzas  *  are  said  to  have  been  written  on  a  blank 
leaf  of  this  Poem.  They  present  so  affecting  a  reverse  of  the  picture, 
that  I  cannot  resist  the  opportunity  of  introducing  them  here. 

Pleasures  of  Memory !  —  oh !  supremely  blest, 

And  justly  proud  beyond  a  Poet's  praise, 
If  the  pure  confines  of  thy  tranquil  breast 
Contain,  indeed,  the  subject  of  thy  lays! 

By  me  how  envied  !  —  for  to  me, 

The  herald  still  of  misery, 

Memory  makes  her  influence  known 

By  sighs,  and  tears,  and  grief  alone : 
I  greet  her  as  the  fiend,  to  whom  belong 
The  vulture's  ravening  beak,  the  raven's  funeral  song. 

She  tells  of  time  misspent,  of  comfort  lost, 

Of  fair  occasions  gone  for  ever  by ; 
Of  hopes  too  fondly  nursed,  too  rudely  crossed, 
Of  many  a  cause  to  wish,  yet  fear  to  die ; 

For  what,  except  the  instinctive  fear 

Lest  she  survive,  detains  me  here. 

When  "  all  the  life  of  life"  is  fled  ?  — 

What,  but  the  deep  inherent  dread, 
Lest  she  beyond  the  grave  resume  her  reign, 
And  realize  the  hell  that  priests  and  beldames  feign  ? 

P.  36,  1.  3. 

Hast  thou  thro'  Ederis  wild-wood  vales  pursued 

On  the  road-side  between  Penrith  and  Appleby  there  stands  a  small 
pillar  with  this  inscription : 

*  By  Henry  F.  R.  Soame  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 


THE     PLEASURES     OF    MEMORY.  53 

"  This  pillar  was  erected  in  the  year  1656,  by  Ann,  Countess  Dowager 
of  Pembroke,  &c.  for  a  memorial  of  her  last  parting,  in  this  place,  with 
her  good  and  pious  mother,  Margaret,  Countess  Dowager  of  Cumber- 
land, on  the  2nd  of  April,  1616  ;  in  memory  whereof  she  hath  left  an 
annuity  of  41.  to  be  distributed  to  the  poor  of  the  parish  of  Brougham, 
every  2nd  day  of  April  for  ever,  upon  the  stone  table  placed  hard  by. 
Laus  Deo !" 

The  Eden  is  the  principal  river  of  Cumberland,  and  rises  in  the 
wildest  part  of  Westmoreland. 

P.  36,  1.  14. 

O'er  his  dead  son  the  gallant  OEMOND  sighed. 

"I  would  not  exchange  my  dead  son,"  said  he,  "for  any  living  son 
m  Christendom."  —  HUME. 

The  same  sentiment  is  inscribed  on  an  urn  at  the  Leasowes.  "  Heu, 
quanto  minus  est  cum  reliquis  versari,  quam  tui  meminisse  !" 

P.  40,  1.  29. 

Down  by  St.  Herberts  consecrated  grove  ; 

A  small  island  covered  with  trees,  among  which  were  formerly  the 
ruins  of  a  religious  house 

P.  41,  1.  15. 

When  lo  !  a  sudden  blast  the  vessel  blew, 

In  a  mountain-lake  the  agitations  are  often  violent  and  momentary. 
The  winds  blow  in  gusts  and  eddies  ;  and  the  water  no  sooner  swells 
than  it  subsides.  —  See  BOURN'S  Hist,  of  Westmoreland. 

P.  42,  1.  17. 

To  what  pure  beings,  in  a  nobler  sphere, 

The  several  degrees  of  angels  may  probably  have  larger  views,  and 
some  of  them  be  endowed  with  capacities  able  to  retain  together,  and 
constantly  set  before  them  as  in  one  picture,  all  their  past  knowledge 
at  once.  —  LOCKE. 

5* 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


THE  ARGUMENT. 

Introduction — Ringing  of  bells  in  a  neighbouring  Village  on  the  Birth  of  an 
Heir — General  Reflections  on  Human  Life — The  Subject  proposed — 
Childhood — Youth — Manhood — Love — Marriage — Domestic  Happiness 
and  Affliction — War — Peace — Civil  Dissension — Retirement  from  active 
Life — Old  Age  and  its  Enjoyments — Conclusion. 


THE  lark  has  sung  his  carol  in  the  sky; 
The  bees  have  hummed  their  noon-tide  lullaby. 
Still  in  the  vale  the  village-bells  ring  round, 
Still  in  Llewellyn-hall  the  jests  resound: 
For  now  the  caudle-cup  is  circling  there, 
Now,  glad  at  heart,  the  gossips  breathe  their  prayer, 
And,  crowding,  stop  the  cradle  to  admire 
The  babe,  the  sleeping  image  of  his  sire. 
A  few  short  years — and  then  these  sounds  shall  hail 
The  day  again,  and  gladness  fill  the  vale; 
So  soon  the  child  a  youth,  the  youth  a  man, 
Eager  to  run  the  race  his  fathers  ran. 

(54) 


'  *..*-.* 


Still  in  the  Vale  the  Villa^fflKJclls  nng  ronmf 
Still  in  Llewellyn  Ha.ll  the  JOSIK  r 


*'  ' 


HUM  AN    LIFE.  55 

Then  the  huge  ox  shall  yield  the  broad  sirloin; 
The  ale,  now  brewed,  in  floods  of  amber  shine : 
And,  basking  in  the  chimney's  ample  blaze, 
'Mid  many  a  tale  told  of  his  boyish  days, 
The  nurse  shall  cry,  of  all  her  ills  beguiled, 
"'Twas  on  these  knees  he  sate  so  oft  and  smiled." 

And  soon  again  shall  music  swell  the  breeze ; 
Soon,  issuing  forth,  shall  glitter  through  the  trees 
Vestures  of  nuptial  white;  and  hymns  be  sung, 
And  violets  scattered  round;  and  old  and  young 
In  every  cottage-porch  with  garlands  green, 
Stand  still  to  gaze,  and  gazing,  bless  the  scene; 
While,  her  dark  eyes  declining,  by  his  side 
Moves  in  her  virgin-veil  the  gentle  bride. 

And  once,  alas,  nor  in  a  distant  hour, 
Another  voice  shall  come  from  yonder  tower; 
When  in  dim  chambers  long  black  weeds  are  seen, 
And  weepings  heard  where  only  joy  has  been; 
When  by  his  children  borne,  and  from  his  door         ~j 
Slowly  departing  to  return  no  more 
He  rests  in  holy  earth  with  them  that  went  before.  J 

And  such  is  Human  Life ;  so  gliding  on, 
It  glimmers  like  a  meteor,  and  is  gone ! 
Yet  is  the  tale,  brief  though  it  be,  as  strange, 
As  full,  methinks,  of  wild  and  wondrous  change, 
As  any  that  the  wandering  tribes  require, 
Stretched  in  the  desert  round  their  evening  fire; 
As  any  sung  of  old  in  hall  or  bower 
To  minstrel-harps  at  midnight's  witching  hour ! 

Born  in  a  trance,  we  wake,  observe,  inquire; 
And  the  green  earth,  the  azure  sky  admire. 


56  HUM  AN     LIFE. 

Of  Elfin  size  —  for  ever  as  we  run,  -\ 

We  cast  a  longer  shadow  in  the  sun ! 
And  now  a  charm,  and  now  a  grace  is  won  !  j 

We  grow  in  stature,  and  in  wisdom  too !  -j 

And,  as  new 'scenes,  new  objects  rise  to  view, 
Think  nothing  done  while   aught  remains  to  do.          J 

Yet,  all  forgot,  how  oft  the  eye-lids  close, 
And  from  the  slack  hand  drops  the  gathered  rose ! 
How  oft,  as  dead,  on  the  warm  turf  we  lie,  •» 

While  many  an  emmet  comes  with  curious  eye ; 
And  on  her  nest  the  watchful  wren  sits  by !  J 

Nor  do  we  speak  or  move,  or  hear  or  see; 
So  like  what  once  we  were,  and  once  again  shall  be ! 

And  say,  how  soon,  where,  blithe  as  innocent, 
The  boy  at  sun-rise  carolled  as  he  went, 
An  aged  pilgrim  on  his  staff  shall  lean,  T 

Tracing  in  vain  the  footsteps  o'er  the  green ; 
The  man  himself  how  altered,  not  the  scene !  J 

Now  journeying  home  with  nothing  but  the  name ; 
Way-worn  and  spent,  another  and  the  same ! 

No  eye  observes  the  growth  and  the  decay: 
To-day  we  look  as  we  did  yesterday; 
And  we  shall  look  to-morrow  as  to-day. 
Yet  while  the  loveliest  smiles,  her  locks  grow  grey ! 
And  in  her  glass  could  she  but  see  the  face 
She'll  see  so  soon  amid  another  race, 
How  would  she  shrink !  —  Returning  from  afar, 
After  some  years  of  travel,  some  of  war, 
Within  his  gate  Ulysses  stood  unknown 
Before  a  wife,  a  father,  and  a  son ! 

And  such  is  Human  Life,  the  general  theme. 
Ah,  what  at  best,  what  but  a  longer  dream  ? 


H  U  M  A  N     L  I  F  E .  57 

Though  with  such  wild  romantic  wanderings  fraught, 
Such  forms  in  Fancy's  richest  coloring  wrought, 
That,  like  visions  of  a  love-sick  brain, 
"Who  would  not  sleep  and  dream  them  o'er  again? 

Our  pathway  leads  but  to  a  precipice; 
And  all  must  follow,  fearful  as  it  is ! 
From  the  first  step  'tis  known;  but  —  No  delay! 
On,  'tis  decreed.     We  tremble  and  obey. 
A  thousand  ills  beset  us  as  we  go. 
— "Still,  could  I  shun  the  fatal  gulf" — Ah,  no, 
'Tis  all  in  vain  —  the  inexorable  Law! 
Nearer  and  nearer  to  the  brink  we  draw. 
Verdure  springs  up ;  and  fruits  and  flowers  invite,      T 
And  groves  and  fountains  —  all  things  that  delight.    > 
"Oh,  I  would  stop,  and  linger  if  I  might!"  J 

We  fly ;  no  resting  for  the  foot  we  find ; 
All  dark  before,  all  desolate  behind ! 
At  length  the  brink  appears  —  but  one  step  more ! 
We  faint  —  On,  on!  —  we  falter  —  and  'tis  o'er! 

Yet  here  high  passions,  high  desires  unfold, 
Prompting  to  noblest  deeds;  here  links  of  gold 
Bind  soul  to  soul ;  and  thoughts  divine  inspire  T 

A  thirst  unquenchable,  a  holy  fire  > 

That  will  not,  cannot  but  with  life  expire!  J 

Now,  seraph-winged,  among  the  stars  we  soar;       T 
Now  distant  ages,  like  a  day,  explore, 
And  judge  the  act,  the  actor  now  no  more ;  J 

Or,  in  a  thankless  hour  condemned  to  live, 
From  others  claim  what  these  refuse  to  give, 
And  dart,  like  MILTOX,  an  unerring  eye 
Through  the  dim  curtains  of  Futurity. 

H 


58  HUMANLIFE. 

Wealth,  Pleasure,  Ease,  all  thought  of  self  resigned, 

What  will  not  Man  encounter  for  Mankind? 

Behold  him  now  unhar  the  prison-door, 

And,  lifting  Guilt,  Contagion  from  the  floor, 

To  Peace  and  Health,  and  Light  and  Life  restore ;  . 

Now  in  Thermopylae  remain  to  share 

Death  —  nor  look  back,  nor  turn  a  footstep  there, 

Leaving  his  story  to  the  birds  of  air; 

And  now  like  Pylades  (in  Heaven  they  write 

Names  such  as  his  in  characters  of  light) 

Long  with  his  friend  in  generous  enmity, 

Pleading,  insisting  in  his  place  to  die ! 

Do  what  he  will,  he  cannot  realize 
Half  he  conceives  —  the  glorious  vision  flies. 
Go  where  he  may,  he  cannot  hope  to  find 
The  truth,  the  beauty  pictured  in  his  mind. 
But  if  by  chance  an  object  strike  the  sense, 
The  faintest  shadow  of  that  Excellence, 
Passions,  that  slept,  are  stirring  in  his  frame ; 
Thoughts  undefined,  feelings  without  a  name ! 
And  some,  not  here  called  forth,  may  slumber  on 
Till  this  vain  pageant  of  a  world  is  gone; 
Lying  too  deep  for  things  that  perish  here, 
Waiting  for  life  —  but  in  a  nobler  sphere! 

Look  where  he  comes !     Rejoicing  in  his  birth, 
Awhile  he  moves  as  in  a  heaven  on  earth ! 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  —  the  land,  the  sea,  the  sky 
To  him  shine  out  as  in  a  galaxy ! 
But  soon  'tis  past  —  the  light  has  died  away! 
With  him  it  came  (it  was  not  of  the  day) 
And  he  himself  diffused  it,  like  the  stone 
That  sheds  awhile  a  lustre  all  its  own, 


HUMAN    LIFE.  59 

Making  night  beautiful.     'Tis  past,  'tis  gone, 

And  in  his  darkness  as  he  journeys  on, 

Nothing  revives  him  but  the  blessed  ray  •» 

That  now  breaks  in,  nor  ever  knows  decay,  > 

Sent  from  a  better  world  to  light  him  on  his  way.    J 

How  great  the  Mystery!     Let  others  sing 
The  circling  Year,  the  promise  of  the  Spring, 
The  Summer's  glory,  and  the  rich  repose 
Of  Autumn,  and  the  Winter's  silvery  snows. 
Man  through  the  changing  scene  let  me  pursue, 
Himself  how  wondrous  in  his  changes  too ! 
Not  Man,  the  sullen  savage  in  his  den ; 
But  Man  called  forth  in  fellowship  with  men; 
Schooled  and  trained  up  to  Wisdom  from  his  birth; 
God's  noblest  work  —  his  image  upon  earth! 

The  day  arrives,  the  moment  wished  and  feared; 
The  child  is  born,  by  many  a  pang  endeared. 
And  now  the  mother's  ear  has  caught  his  cry; 
Oh  grant  the  cherub  to  his  asking  eye ! 
He  comes  —  she  clasps  him.     To  her  bosom  pressed, 
He  drinks  the  balm  of  life,  and  drops  to  rest. 

Her  by  her  smile  how  soon  the  Stranger  knows; 
How  soon  by  his  the  glad  discovery  shows ! 
As  to  her  lips  she  lifts  the  lovely  boy, 
What  answering  looks  of  sympathy  and  joy ! 
He  walks,  he  speaks.     In  many  a  broken  word 
His  wants,  his  wishes,  and  his  griefs  are  heard. 
And  ever,  ever  to  her  lap  he  flies, 
When  rosy  Sleep  comes  on  with  sweet  surprise. 
Locked  in  her  arms,  his  arms  across  her  flung, 
(That  name  most  dear  for  ever  on  his  tongue) 


60  HUM  AN    LIFE. 

As  with  soft  accents  round  her  neck  he  clings, 
And,  cheek  to  cheek,  her  lulling  song  she  sings, 
How  blest  to  feel  the  heatings  of  his  heart, 
Breathe  his  sweet  breath,  and  kiss  for  kiss  impart ; 
Watch  o'er  his  slumbers  like  the  brooding  dove, 
And,  if  she  can,  exhaust  a  mother's  love! 

But  soon  a  nobler  task  demands  her  care. 
Apart  she  joins  his  little  hands  in  prayer, 
Telling  of  Him  who  sees  in  secret  there!  — 
And  now  the  volume  on  her  knee  has  caught 
His  wandering  eye  —  now  many  a  written  thought 
Never  to  die,  with  many  a  lisping  sweet 
His  moving,  murmuring  lips  endeavour  to  repeat. 

Released,  he  chases  the  bright  butterfly; 
Oh  he  would  follow  —  follow  through  the  sky! 
Climbs  the  gaunt  mastiff  slumbering  in  his  chain, 
And  chides  and  buffets,  clinging  by  the  mane ; 
Then  runs,  and,  kneeling  by  the  fountain-side, 
Sends  his  brave  ship  in  triumph  down  the  tide, 
A  dangerous  voyage ;  or,  if  now  he  can, 
If  now  he  wears  the  habit  of  a  man, 
Flings  off  the  coat  so  long  his  pride  and  pleasure, 
And,  like  a  miser  digging  for  his  treasure, 
His  tiny  spade  in  his  own  garden  plies, 
And  in  green  letters  sees  his  name  arise ! 
Where'er  he  goes,  for  ever  in  her  sight, 
She  looks,  and  looks,  and  still  with  new  delight! 

Ah  who,  when  fading  of  itself  away, 
Would  cloud  the  sunshine  of  his  little  day ! 
Now  is  the  May  of  Life.     Exulting  round, 
Joy  wings  his  feet,  Joy  lifts  him  from  the  ground ! 


HUMAN     LIFE.  61 

Pointing  to  such,  well  might  Cornelia  say, 

When  the  rich  casket  shone  in  bright  array, 

"  These  are  MY  Jewels."     Well  of  such  as  he,  1 

When  JESUS  spake,  well  might  his  language  be, 

"  Suffer  these  little  ones  to  come  to  me !"  J 

Thoughtful  by  fits,  he  scans  and  he  reveres 
The  brow  engraven  with  the  Thoughts  of  Years ; 
Close  by  her  side  his  silent  homage  given 
As  to  some  pure  Intelligence  from  Heaven ; 
His  eyes  cast  downward  with  ingenuous  shame,  1 

His  conscious  cheeks,  conscious  of  praise  or  blame,     > 
At  once  lit  up  as  with  a  holy  flame ! 
He  thirsts  for  knowledge,  speaks  but  to  inquire ; 
And  soon  with  tears  relinquished  to  the  Sire, 
Soon  in  his  hand  to  Wisdom's  temple  led, 
Holds  secret  converse  with  the  Mighty  Dead ; 
Trembles  and  thrills  and  weeps  as  they  inspire, 
Burns  as  they  burn,  and  with  congenial  fire ! 
Like  Her  most  gentle,  most  unfortunate, 
Crowned  but  to  die  —  who  in  her  chamber  sate 
Musing  with  Plato,  though  the  horn  was  blown,          •) 
And  every  ear  and  every  heart  was  won, 
And  all  in  green  array  were  chasing  down  the  sun !  J 

Then  in  the  Age  of  Admiration  —  Then 
Gods  walk  the  earth,  or  beings  more  than  men ; 
Who  breathe  the  soul  of  Inspiration  round, 
Whose  very  shadows  consecrate  the  ground  ! 
Ah,  then  comes  thronging  many  a  wild  desire, 
And  high  imagining  and  thought  of  fire  ! 
Then  from  within  a  voice  exclaims  "Aspire!" 
Phantoms,  that  upward  point,  before  him  pass, 
As  in  the  Cave  athwart  the  Wizard's  glass; 
6 


62  HUMAN     LIFE. 

They,  that  on  Youth  a  grace,  a  lustre  shed, 

Of  every  Age  —  the  living  and  the  dead ! 

Thou  all  accomplished  SURREY,  thou  art  known ;        ~j 

The  flower  of  Knighthood,  nipt  as  soon  as  blown !      j- 

Melting  all  hearts  but  Geraldine's  alone !  J 

And,  -with  his  beaver  up,  discovering  there 

One  who  loved  less  to  conquer  than  to  spare, 

Lo,  the  Black  Warrior,  he,  who,  battle-spent, 

Bare-headed  served  the  Captive  in  his  tent ! 

Young  B in  the  groves  of  Academe, 

Or  where  Ilyssus  winds  his  whispering  stream ; 
Or  where  the  wild  bees  swarm  with  ceaseless  hum, 
Dreaming  old  dreams  —  a  joy  for  years  to  come ; 
Or  on  the  rock  within  the  sacred  Fane ;  — 
Scenes  such  as  MILTON  sought,  but  sought  in  vain  :* 
And  MILTON'S  self  (at  that  thrice-honoured  name 
Well  may  we  glow  —  as  men,  we  share  his  fame) 
And  MILTON'S  self,  apart  with  beaming  eye, 
Planning  he  knows  not  what  —  that  shall  not  die ! 

Oh  in  thy  truth  secure,  thy  virtue  bold, 
Beware  the  poison  in  the  cup  of  gold, 
The  asp  among  the  flowers.     Thy  heart  beats  high, 
As  bright  and  brighter  breaks  the  distant  sky  ! 
But  every  step  is  on  enchanted  ground : 
Danger  thou  lov'st,  and  Danger  haunts  thee  round. 

Who  spurs  his  horse  against  the  mountain-side ; 
Then,  plunging,  slakes  his  fury  in  the  tide  ? 
Draws  and  cries  ho !  and,  where  the  sun-beams  fall, 
At  his  own  shadow  thrusts  along  the  wall? 

*  He  had  arrived  at  Naples,  and  was  preparing  to  visit  Sicily  and 
Greece,  when,  hearing  of  the  troubles  in  England,  he  thought  it  proper 
to  hasten  home. 


HUM  AN     LIFE.  6S 


Who  dances  without  music ;  and  anon 
Sings  like  the  lark  —  then  sighs  as  woe-begone, 
And  folds  his  arms,  and,  where  the  willows  wave, 
Glides  in  the  moonshine  by  a  maiden's  grave? 
Come  hither,  boy,  and  clear  thy  open  brow. 
Yon  summer-clouds,  now  like  the  Alps,  and  now 
A  ship,  a  whale,  change  not  so  fast  as  thou. 

He  hears  me  not  —  those  sighs  were  from  the  heart. 
Too,  too  well  taught,  he  plays  the  lover's  part. 
He  who  at  masks,  nor  feigning  nor  sincere, 
With  sweet  discourse  would  win  a  lady's  ear, 
Lie  at  her  feet  and  on  her  slipper  swear 
That  none  were  half  so  faultless,  half  so  fair, 
Now  through  the  forest  hies,  a  stricken  deer, 
A  banished  man,  flying  when  none  are  near; 
And  writes  on  every  tree,  and  lingers  long 
Where  most  the  nightingale  repeats  her  song; 
Where  most  the  nymph,  that  haunts  the  silent  grove, 
Delights  to  syllable  the  names  we  love. 

Two  on  his  steps  attend,  in  motley  clad; 
One  woeful-wan,  one  merrier  yet  as  mad ; 
Called  Hope  and  Fear.     Hope  shakes  his  cap  and  bells, 
And  flowers  spring  up  among  the  woodland  dells. 
To  Hope  he  listens,  wandering  without  measure 
Thro'  sun  and  shade,  lost  in  a  trance  of  pleasure; 
And,  if  to  Fear  but  for  a  weary  mile, 
Hope  follows  fast  and  wins  him  with  a  smile. 

At  length  he  goes  —  a  Pilgrim  to  the  Shrine, 
And  for  a  relic  would  a  world  resign ! 
A  glove,  a  shoe-tie,  or  a  flower  let  fall  — 
What  though  the  least,  Love  consecrates  them  all ! 


64  HUM  AN     LIFE. 

And  now  he  breathes  in  many  a  plaintive  verse; 

Now  wins  the  dull  ear  of  the  wily  nurse 

At  early  matins  ('twas  at  matin-time 

That  first  he  saw  and  sickened  in  his  prime) 

And  soon  the  Sibyl,  in  her  thirst  for  gold, 

Plays  with  young  hearts  that  will  not  be  controlled. 

"  Absence  from  Thee  —  as  self  from  self  it  seems  !" 
Scaled  is  the  garden-wall ;  and  lo,  her  beams 
Silvering  the  east,  the  moon  comes  up,  revealing 
His  well-known  form  along  the  terrace  stealing. 

—  Oh,  ere  in  sight  he  came,  'twas  his  to  thrill 
A  heart  that  loved  him,  though  in  secret  still. 
"  Am  I  awake  ?  or  is  it  ...  can  it  be 

"  An  idle  dream  ?     Nightly  it  visits  me ! 
"  —  That  strain,"  she  cries,  "as  from  the  water  rose. •) 
"  Now  near  and  nearer  through  the  shade  it  flows  !  —    > 
"Now  sinks  departing  —  sweetest  in  its  close!"  J 

No  casement  gleams ;  no  Juliet,  like  the  day, 
Comes  forth  and  speaks  and  bids  her  lover  stay. 
Still,  like  aerial  music  heard  from  far, 
Nightly  it  rises  with  the  evening  star. 

—  "She  loves  another!  Love  was  in  that  sigh!" 
On  the  cold  ground  he  throws  himself  to  die. 
Fond  Youth,  beware.     Thy  heart  is  most  deceiving: 
Who  wish  are  fearful ;  who  suspect,  believing. 

—  And  soon  her  looks  the  rapturous  truth  avow : 
Lovely  before,  oh,  say  how  lovely  now ! 

She  flies  not,  frowns  not,  though  he  pleads  his  cause; 
Nor  yet  —  nor  yet  her  hand  from  his  withdraws ; 
But  by  some  secret  Power  surprised,  subdued, 
(Ah  how  resist?  And  would  she  if  she  could?) 


H  U  M  A  N     I,  I  F  E  .  65 

lalls  on  his  neck  as  half  unconscious  where, 
Glad  to  conceal  her  tears,  her  blushes  there. 

Then  come  those  full  confidings  of  the  past ; 
All  sunshine  now,  where  all  was  overcast. 
Then  do  they  wander  till  the  day  is  gone, 
Lost  in  each  other;  and  when  Night  steals  on, 
Covering  them  round,  how  sweet  her  accents  are ! 
Oh  when  she  turns  and  speaks,  her  voice  is  far, 
Far  above  singing! — But  soon  nothing  stirs 
To  break  the  silence  —  Joy  like  his,  like  hers, 
Deals  not  in  words ;  and  now  the  shadows  close, 
Now  in  the  glimmering,  dying  light  she  grows 
Less  and  less  earthly !   As  departs  the  day, 
All  that  was  mortal  seems  to  melt  away, 
Till,  like  a  gift  resumed  as  soon  as  given, 
She  fades  at  last  into  a  Spirit  from  Heaven ! 

Then  are  they  blest  indeed;  and  swift  the  hours 
Till  her  young  Sisters  wreathe  her  hair  in  flowers, 
Kindling  her  beauty  —  while,  unseen,  the  least  -j 

Twitches  her  robe,  then  runs  behind  the  rest, 
Known  by  her  laugh  that  will  not  be  suppressed.      J 
Then  before  All  they  stand  —  the  holy  vow 
And  ring  of  gold,  no  fond  illusions  now, 
Bind  her  as  his.     Across  the  threshold  led, 
And  every  tear  kissed  off  as  soon  as  shed, 
His  house  she  enters  —  there  to  be  a  light 
Shining  within,  when  all  without  is  night; 
A  guardian-angel  o'er  his  life  presiding, 
Doubling  his  pleasures,  and  his  cares  dividing; 
Winning  him  back,  when  mingling  in  the  throng, 
From  a  vain  world  we  love,  alas !  too  long, 
6*  I 


66  HUM  AN     LIFE. 

To  fire-side  happiness,  to  hours  of  ease, 

Blest  with  that  charm,  the  certainty  to  please. 

How  oft  her  eyes  read  his ;  her  gentle  mind 

To  all  his  wishes,  all  his  thoughts  inclined; 

Still  subject  —  ever  on  the  watch  to  borrow 

Mirth  of  his  mirth  and  sorrow  of  his  sorrow. 

The  soul  of  music  slumbers  in  the  shell, 

Till  waked  and  kindled  by  the  master's  spell ; 

And  feeling  hearts  —  touch  them  but  rightly  —  pour 

A  thousand  melodies  unheard  before ! 

Nor  many  moons  o'er  hill  and  valley  rise 
Ere  to  the  gate  with  nymph-like  step  she  flies, 
And  their  first-born  holds  forth,  their  darling  boy, 
With  smiles  how  sweet,  how  full  of  love  and  joy, 
To  meet  him  coming ;  theirs  through  every  year 
Pure  transports,  such  as  each  to  each  endear ! 
And  laughing  eyes  and  laughing  voices  fill 
Their  home  with  gladness.     She,  when  all  are  still, 
Comes  and  undraws  the  curtain  as  they  lie, 
In  sleep  how  beautiful !  He,  when  the  sky 
Gleams,  and  the  wood  sends  up  its  harmony, 
When,  gathering  round  his  bed,  they  climb  to  share 
His  kisses,  and  with  gentle  violence  there 
Break  in  upon  a  dream  not  half  so  fair, 
Up  to  the  hill-top  leads  their  little  feet; 
Or  by  the  forest-lodge,  perchance  to  meet 
The  stag-herd  on  its  march,  perchance  to  hear 
The  otter  rustling  in  the  sedgy  mere ; 
Or  to  the  echo  near  the  Abbot's  tree, 
That  gave  him  back  his  words  of  pleasantry  — 
When  the  House  stood,  no  merrier  man  than  he  ! 


HUMAN     LIFE.  67 

And,  as  they  wander  -with  a  keen  delight, 

If  but  a  leveret  catch  their  quicker  sight 

Down  a  green  alley,  or  a  squirrel  then 

Climb  the  gnarled  oak,  and  look  and  climb  again, 

If  but  a  moth  flit  by,  an  acorn  fall, 

He  turns  their  thoughts  to  Him  who  made  them  all; 

These  with  unequal  footsteps  following  fast, 

These  clinging  by  his  cloak,  unwilling  to  be  last. 

The  shepherd  on  Tornaro's  misty  brow, 

And  the  swart  seaman,  sailing  far  below, 

Not  undelighted  watch  the  morning  ray  •> 

Purpling  the  orient  —  till  it  breaks  away,  > 

And  burns  and  blazes  into  glorious  day !  J 

But  happier  still  is  he  who  bends  to  trace 

The  sun,  the  soul,  just  dawning  in  the  face; 

The  burst,  the  glow,  the  animating  strife, 

The  thoughts  and  passions  stirring  into  life ; 

The  forming  utterance,  the  inquiring  glance, 

The  giant  waking  from  his  tenfold  trance, 

Till  up  he  starts  -as  conscious  whence  he  came, 

And  all  is  light  within  the  trembling  frame ! 

What  then  a  Father's  feelings?     Joy  and  Fear 
In  turn  prevail,  Joy  most ;  and  through  the  year 
Tempering  the  ardent,  urging  night  and  day 
Him  who  shrinks  back  or  wanders  from  the  way, 
Praising  each  highly  —  from  a  wish  to  raise 
Their  merits  to  the  level  of  his  Praise, 
Onward  in  their  observing  sight  he  moves, 
Fearful  of  wrong,  in  awe  of  whom  he  loves ! 
Their  sacred  presence  who  shall  dare  profane? 
Who,  when  He  slumbers,  hope  to  fix  a  stain? 


68  HUMAN    LIFE. 

He  lives  a  model  in  his  life  to  show, 
That,  when  he  dies  and  through  the  world  they  go, 
Some  men  may  pause  and  say,  when  some  admire, 
"They  are  his  sons,  and  worthy  of  their  sire!" 

But  Man  is  born  to  suffer.     On  the  door 
Sickness  has  set  her  mark;  and  now  no  more 
Laughter  within  we  hear,  or  wood-notes  wild 
As  of  a  mother  singing  to  her  child. 
All  now  in  anguish  from  that  room  retire, 
Where  a  young  cheek  glows  with  consuming  fire, 
And  Innocence  breathes  contagion  —  all  but  one, 
But  she  who  gave  it  birth  —  from  her  alone 
The  medicine-cup  is  taken.     Through  the  night, 
And  through  the  day,  that  with  its  dreary  light 
Comes  unregarded,  she  sits  silent  by, 
Watching  the  changes  with  her  anxious  eye: 
While  they  without,  listening  below,  above, 
(Who  but  in  sorrow  know  how  much  they  love?) 
From  every  little  noise  catch  hope  and  fear, 
Exchanging  still,  still  as  they  turn  to  hear, 
Whispers  and  sighs,  and  smiles  all  tenderness 
That  would  in  vain  the  starting  tear  repress. 

Such  grief  was  ours — it  seems  but  yesterday  — 
When  in  thy  prime,  wishing  so  much  to  stay, 
'Twas  thine,  Maria,  thine  without  a  sigh 
At  midnight  in  a  Sister's  arms  to  die ! 
Oh  thou  wert  lovely  —  lovely  was  thy  frame, 
And  pure  thy  spirit  as  from  Heaven  it  came! 
And,  when  recalled  to  join  the  blest  above, 
Thou  diedst  a  victim  to  exceeding  love, 
Nursing  the  young  to  health.     In  happier  hours, 
When  idle  Fancy  wove  luxuriant  flowers, 


HUM  AN    LIFE.  69 

• 

Once  in  thy  mirth  them  bad'st  me  write  on  thee ; 
And  now  I  write  —  what  thou  shalt  never  see! 

At  length  the  Father,  vain  his  power  to  save, 
Follows  his  child  in  silence  to  the  grave, 
(That  child  now  cherished,  whom  he  would  not  give, 
Sleeping  the  sleep  of  death,  for  All  that  live;) 
Takes  a  last  look,  when,  not  unheard,  the  spade 
Scatters  the  earth  as  "dust  to  dust"  is  said, 
Takes  a  last  look  and  goes;  his  best  relief 
Consoling  others  in  that  hour  of  grief, 
And  with  sweet  tears  and  gentle  words  infusing 
The  holy  calm  that  leads  to  heavenly  musing. 

But  hark,  the  din  of  arms !  no  time  for  sorrow. 
To  horse,  to  horse !     A  day  of  blood  to-morrow ! 
One  parting  pang,  and  then  —  and  then  I  fly, 
Fly  to  the  field,  to  triumph  —  or  to  die!  — 
lie  goes,  and  night  comes  as  it  never  came ! 
With  shrieks  of  horror!  —  and  a  vault  of  flame! 
And  lo  !  when  morning  mocks  the  desolate, 
Red  runs  the  river  by;  and  at  the  gate 
Breathless  a  horse  without  his  rider  stands ! 
But  hush !  .  .  a  shout  from  the  victorious  bands ! 
And  oh  the  smiles  and  tears,  a  sire  restored ! 
One  wears  his  helm,  one  buckles  on  his  sword; 
One  hangs  the  wall  with  laurel-leaves,  and  all 
Spring  to  prepare  the  soldier's  festival ; 
While  She  best-loved,  till  then  forsaken  never, 
Clings  round  his  neck  as  she  would  cling  for  ever ! 

Such  golden  deeds  lead  on  to  golden  days, 
Days  of  domestic  peace  —  by  him  who  plays 
On  the  great  stage  how  uneventful  thought ; 
Yet  with  a  thousand  busy  projects  fraught, 


70  HUMANLIFE. 

A  thousand  incidents  that  stir  the  mind 

To  pleasure,  such  as  leaves  no  sting  behind ! 

Such  as  the  heart  delights  in  —  and  records 

Within  how  silently  —  in  more  than  words! 

A  Holiday  —  the  frugal  banquet  spread 

On  the  fresh  herbage  near  the  fountain-head 

With  quips  and  cranks  —  what  time  the  wood-lark  there 

Scatters  her  loose  notes  on  the  sultry  air, 

What  time  the  king-fisher  sits  perched  below, 

Where,  silver-bright,  the  water-lilies  blow :  — 

A  Wake  —  the  booths  whitening  the  village-green, 

Where  Punch  and  Scaramouch  aloft  are  seen; 

Sign  beyond  sign  in  close  array  unfurled, 

Picturing  at  large  the  wonders  of  the  world; 

And  far  and  wide,  over  the  vicar's  pale,  } 

Black  hoods  and  scarlet  crossing  hill  and  dale, 

All,  all  abroad,  and  music  in  the  gale :  —  J 

A  Wedding-dance  —  a  dance  into  the  night 

On  the  barn-floor,  when  maiden-feet  are  light; 

When  the  young  bride  receives  the  promised  dower, 

And  flowers  are  flung,  herself  a  fairer  flower:  — 

A  morning-visit  to  the  poor  man's  shed, 

(Who  would  be  rich  while  One  was  wanting  bread  ?) 

When  all  are  emulous  to  bring  relief, 

And  tears  are  falling  fast  —  but  not  for  grief:  — 

A  Walk  in  Spring  —  GRATTAN,  like  those  with  thee, 

By  the  heath-side  (who  had  not  envied  me  ?) 

When  the  sweet  limes,  so  full  of  bees  in  June, 

Led  us  to  meet  beneath  their  boughs  at  noon: 

And  thou  didst  say  which  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 

Could  they  but  hear  and  at  thy  bidding  rise, 

Thou  wouldst  call  up  and  question. 


HUMAN    .LIFE.  71 

Graver  things 

Come  in  their  turn.     Morning,  and  Evening,  brings 
Its  holy  office  ;  and  the  sabbath-bell, 
That  over  wood  and  wild  and  mountain-dell 
Wanders  so  far,  chasing  all  thoughts  unholy 
With  sounds  most  musical,  most  melancholy, 
Not  on  his  ear  is  lost.     Then  he  pursues 
The  pathway  leading  through  the  aged  yews, 
Nor  unattended ;  and  when  all  are  there, 
Pours  out  his  spirit  in  the  House  of  Prayer, 
That  House  with  many  a  funeral  garland  hung* 
Of  virgin-white  —  memorials  of  the  young, 
The  last  yet  fresh  when  marriage-chimes  were  ringing, 
And  hope  and  joy  in  other  hearts  were  springing; 
That  House,  where  Age  led  in  by  Filial  Love, 
Their  looks  composed,  their  thoughts  on  things  above, 

The  world  forgot,  or  all  its  wrongs  forgiven 

Who  would  not  say  they  trod  the  path  to  Heaven  ? 

Nor  at  the  fragrant  hour  —  at  early  dawn  — 
Under  the  elm-tree  on  his  level  lawn, 
Or  in  his  porch  is  he  less   duly  found,  •] 

When  they  that  cry  for  Justice  gather  round, 
And  in  that  cry  her  sacred  voice  is  drowned;  J 

His  then  to  hear  and  weigh  and  arbitrate, 
Like  ALFRED  judging  at  his  palace-gate. 
Healed  at  his  touch,  the  wounds  of  discord  close; 
And  they  return  as  friends,  that  came  as  foes. 

Thus,  while  the  world  but  claims  its  proper  part, 
Oft  in  the  head  but  never  in  the  heart, 

*  A  custom  in  some  of  our  country  churches. 


72  HUM  AN     LIFE. 

His  life  steals  on ;  -within  his  quiet  dwelling 
That  home-felt  joy  all  other  joys  excelling. 
Sick  of  the  crowd,  when  enters  he  —  nor  then 
Forgets  the  cold  indifference  of  men  ? 

Soon  through  the  gadding  vine  the  sun  looks  in, 
And  gentle  hands  the  breakfast-rites  begin. 
Then  the  bright  kettle  sings  its  matin-song, 
Then  fragrant  clouds  of  Mocha  and  Souchong 
Blend  as  they  rise ;  and  (while  without  are  seen, 
Sure  of  their  meal,  the  small  birds  on  the  green ; 
And  in  from  far  a  school-boy's  letter  flies, 
Flushing  the  sister's  cheek  -with  glad  surprise) 
That  sheet  unfolds  (who  reads,  that  reads  it  not?) 
Born  with  the  day  and  with  the  day  forgot ; 
Its  ample  page  various  as  human  life, 
The  pomp,  the  woe,  the  bustle,  and  the  strife! 

But  nothing  lasts.     In  Autumn  at  his  plough 
Met  and  solicited,  behold  him  now 
Leaving  that  humbler  sphere  his  fathers  knew, 
The  sphere  that  Wisdom  loves,  and  Virtue  too ; 
They  who  subsist  not  on  the  vain  applause 
Misjudging  man  now  gives  and  now  withdraws. 

'Twas  morn  —  the  sky-lark  o'er  the  furrow  sung 
As  from  his  lips  the  slow  consent  was  wrung; 
As  from  the  glebe  his  fathers  tilled  of  old, 
The  plough  they  guided  in  an  age  of  gold, 
Down  by  the  beech-wood  side  he  turned  away:  — 
And  now  behold  him  in  an  evil  day 
Serving  the  State  again  —  not  as  before, 
Not  foot  to  foot,  the  war-whoop  at  his  door,  — 
But  in  the  Senate ;  and  (though  round  him  fly 
The  jest,  the  sneer,  the  subtle  sophistry,) 


HUMAN    LIFE.  73 

* 

With  honest  dignity,  with  manly  sense, 

And  every  charm  of  natural  eloquence, 

Like  HAMPDEN  struggling  in  his  Country's  cause, 

The  first,  the  foremost  to  obey  the  laws, 

The  last  to  brook  oppression.     On  he  moves, 

Careless  of  blame  while  his  own  heart  approves, 

Careless  of  ruin  —  ("  For  the  general  good 

'Tis  not  the  first  time  I  shall  shed  my  blood.") 

On  thro'  that  gate  misnamed,  thro'  which  before 

Went  Sidney,  Russell,  Raleigh,  Cranmer,  More, 

On  into  twilight  within  walls  of  stone, 

Then  to  the  place  of  trial ;  and  alone, 

Alone  before  his  judges  in  array 

Stands  for  his  life :  there,  on  that  awful  day, 

Counsel  of  friends  —  all  human  help  denied —  •> 

All  but  from  her  who  sits  the  pen  to  guide, 

Like  that  sweet  saint  who  sat  by  RUSSELL'S  side      J 

Under  the  Judgment-seat. 

But  guilty  men 

Triumph  not  always.     To  his  hearth  again, 
Again  with  honour  to  his  hearth  restored, 
Lo,  in  the  accustomed  chair  and  at  the  board, 
Thrice  greeting  those  who  most  withdraw  their  claim, 
(The  lowliest  servant  calling  by  his  name) 
He  reads  thanksgiving  in  the  eyes  of  all,  •* 

All  met  as  at  a  holy  festival !  J> 

—  On  the  day  destined  for  his  funeral !  J 

Lo,  there  the  Friend,  who,  entering  where  he  lay,     -\ 
Breathed  in  his  drowsy  ear  "Away,  away!  i- 

Take  thou  my  cloak  —  Nay,  start  not,  but  obey —    J 
Take  it  and  leave  me."     And  the  blushing  Maid, 
Who  thro'  the  streets  as  thro'  a  desert  strayed; 
7  K 


74  HUMAN    LIFE. 

And,  when  her  dear,  dear  Father  passed  along, 

Would  not  be  held  —  but  bursting  through  the  throng, 

Halberd  and  battle-axe  —  kissed  him  o'er  and  o'er;   T 

Then  turned  and  went — then  sought  him  as  before, 

Believing  she  should  see  his  face  no  more !  J 

And  oh,  how  changed  at  once  —  no  heroine  here, 

But  a  weak  woman  worn  with  grief  and  fear, 

Her  darling  Mother!     'Twas  but  now  she  smiled; 

And  now  she  weeps  upon  her  weeping  child ! 

—  But  who  sits  by,  her  only  wish  below 

At  length  fulfilled — and  now  prepared  to  go? 

His  hands  on  hers  —  as  through  the  mists  of  night,  1 

She  gazes  on  him  with  imperfect  sight; 

Her  glory  now,  as  ever  her  delight !  J 

To  her,  methinks,  a  second  Youth  is  given ; 

The  light  upon  her  face  a  light  from  Heaven ! 

An  hour  like  this  is  worth  a  thousand  passed 
In  pomp  or  ease — 'Tis  present  to  the  last! 
Years  glide  away  untold — 'Tis  still  the  same! 
As  fresh,  as  fair  as  on  the  day  it  came  ! 

And  now  once  more  where  most  he  loved  to  be,    "i 
In  his  own  fields  —  breathing  tranquillity —  > 

We  hail  him — not  less  happy,  Fox,  than  thee  !         J 
Thee  at  St.  Anne's  so  soon  of  Care  beguiled, 
Playful,  sincere,  and  artless  as  a  child ! 
Thee,  who  wouldst  watch  a  bird's  nest  on  the  spray, 
Through  the  green  leaves  exploring,  day  by  day. 
How  oft  from  grove  to  grove,  from  seat  to  seat, 
With  thee  conversing  in  thy  loved  retreat, 
I  saw  the  sun  go  down!  —  Ah,  then,  'twas  thine 
Ne'er  to  forget  some  volume  half  divine, 


HUMAN^LIFE.  75 

Shakspeare's  or  Dryden's  —  thro'  the  chequered  shade  ") 
Borne  in  thine  hand  behind  thee  as  we  strayed; 
And  where  we  ^ate  (and  many  a  halt  we  made)        J 
To  read  there  with  a  fervour  all  thy  own,  •» 

And  in  thy  grand  and  melancholy  tone, 
Some  splendid  passage  not  to  thee  unknown,  J 

Fit  theme  for  long  discourse  —  Thy  bell  has  tolled! 
— But  in  thy  place  among  us  we  behold 
One  who  resembles  thee. 

'Tis  the  sixth  hour. 

The  village-clock  strikes  from  the  distant  tower. 
The  ploughman  leaves  the  field;  the  traveller  hears, 
And  to  the  inn  spurs  forward.     Nature  wears 
Her  sweetest  smile ;  the  day-star  in  the  west 
Yet  hovering,  and  the  thistle's  down  at  rest. 

And  such,  his  labour  done,  the  calm  He  knows,* 
Whose  footsteps  we  have  followed.     Round  him  glows 
An  atmosphere  that  brightens  to  the  last; 
The  light,  that  shines,  reflected  from  the  Past, 
— And  from  the  Future  too !     Active  in  Thought 
Among  old  books,  old  friends ;  and  not  unsought 
By  the  wise  stranger  —  in  his  morning-hours, 
When  gentle  airs  stir  the  fresh-blowing  flowers, 
He  muses,  turning  up  the  idle  weed; 
Or  prunes  or  grafts,  or  in  the  yellow  mead 
Watches  his  bees  at  hiving-time  ;f  and  now, 
The  ladder  resting  on  the  orchard  bough, 

*  At  ilia  quanti  sunt,  animum  tanquam  emeritis  stipendiis  libidinis, 
ambitionis,   contentionis,  inimicitiarum,  cupiditatum  omnium,   secum 
esse,  secumque  (ut  dicitur)  vivere? — Cic.  De  Senectute. 
|  Hinc  ubi  jam  cmissum  caveis  ad  sidera  coeli 
Nare  per  aestatem  liquidam  suspexeris  agmen, 
Contemplator.  —  VIRQ. 


76  HUMANLIFE. 

Culls  the  delicious  fruit  that  hangs  in  air, 
The  purple  plum,  green  fig,  or  golden  pear, 
'Mid  sparkling  eyes,  and  hands  uplifted  there. 

At  night,  when  all,  assembling  round  the  fire, 
Closer  and  closer  draw  till  they  retire, 
A  tale  is  told  of  India  or  Japan, 
Of  merchants  from  Golcond  or  Astracan, 
What  time  wild  nature  revelled  unrestrained, 
And  Sinbad  travelled  and  the  Caliphs  reigned :  — 
Of  Knights  renowned  from  holy  Palestine, 
And  Minstrels,  such  as  swept  the  lyre  divine, 
When  Blondel  came,  and  Richard*  in  his  Cell 
Heard,  as  he  lay,  the  seng  he  knew  so  well:  — 
Of  some  Norwegian,  while  the  icy  gale 
Rings  in  her  shrouds  and  beats  her  iron-sail, 
Among  the  shining  Alps  of  Polar  seas 
Immoveable  —  for  ever  there  to  freeze  ! 
Or  some  great  Caravan,  from  well  to  well 
Winding  as  darkness  on  the  desert  fell, 
In  their  long  march,  such  as  the  Prophet  bids, 
To  Mecca  from  the  Land  of  Pyramids, 
And  in  an  instant  lost  —  a  hollow  wave 
Of  burning  sand  their  everlasting  grave !  — 
Now  the  scene  shifts  to  Venice  —  to  a  square 
Glittering  with  light,  all  nations  masking  there, 
With  light  reflected  on  the  tremulous  tide, 
Where  gondolas  in  gay  confusion  glide, 
Answering  the  jest,  the  song  on  every  side ; 

*  Richard  the  First.  For  the  romantic  story  here  alluded  to,  we  are 
indebted  to  the  French  Chroniclers.  —  See  FAUCHET.  Recueil  de 
POrigine  de  la  Langue  et  Poesie  Fr. 


\\ith  light  reflected  on  the  ireiivuloTis  tide. 
Where  gondola.^  m  gay  .contusion,  glide, 

ng  the  jest, the  sbng  on  every  side,' 


HUMAN     LIFE.  77 

To  Naples  next  —  and  at  the  crowded  gate, 

Where  Grief  and  Fear  and  wild  Amazement  wait, 

Lo,  on  his  back  a  Son  brings  in  his  Sire, 

Vesuvius  blazing  like  a  World  on  fire !  — 

Then,  at  a  sign  that  never  was  forgot, 

A  strain  breaks  forth  (who  hears  and  loves  it  not?) 

From  lute  or  organ!     'Tis  at  parting  given, 

That  in  their  slumbers  they  may  dream  of  Heaven; 

Young  voices  mingling,  as  it  floats  along, 

In  Tuscan  air  or  Handel's  sacred  song ! 

And  She  inspires,  whose  beauty  shines  in  all, 
So  soon  to  weave  a  daughter's  coronal, 
And  at  the  nuptial  rite  smile  through  her  tears ;  — 
So  soon  to  hover  round  her  full  of  fears, 
And  with  assurance  sweet  her  soul  revive 
In  child-birth  —  when  a  mother's  love  is  most  alive. 

No,  'tis  not  here  that  Solitude  is  known, 
Through  the  wide  world  he  only  is  alone 
Who  lives  not  for  another.     Come  what  will, 
The  generous  man  has  his  companion  still; 
The  cricket  on  his  hearth ;  the  buzzing  fly 
That  skims  his  roof,  or,  be  his  roof  the  sky, 
Still  with  its  note  of  gladness  passes  by : 
And,  in  an  iron  cage  condemned  to  dwell, 
The  cage  that  stands  within  the  dungeon-cell, 
He  feeds  his  spider  —  happier  at  the  worst 
Than  he  at  large  who  in  himself  is  curst. 

0  thou  all-eloquent,  whose  mighty  mind 
Streams  from  the  depth  of  ages  on  mankind, 
Streams  like  the  day  —  who,  angel-like,  hast  shed 
Thy  full  effulgence  on  the  hoary  head, 

7* 


78  H  U  M  A  N     L  I  F  E . 

Speaking  in  Cato's  venerable  voice, 
"Look  up,  and  faint  not  — faint  not,  but  rejoice!" 
From  thy  Elysium  guide  him.     Age  has  now 
Stamped  with  its  signet  that  ingenuous  brow : 
And,  'mid  his  old  hereditary  trees, 
Trees  he  has  climbed  so  oft,  he  sits  and  sees 
His  children's  children  playing  round  his  knees: 
Then  happiest,  youngest,  when  the  quoit  is  flung, 
When  side  by  side  the  archers'  bows  are  strung; 
His  to  prescribe  the  place,  adjudge  the  prize, 
Envying  no  more  the  young  their  energies 
Than  they  an  old  man  when  his  words  are  wise; 
His  a  delight  how  pure  —  without  alloy ; 
Strong  in  their  strength,  rejoicing  in  their  joy ! 

Now  in  their  turn  assisting,  they  repay 
The  anxious  cares  of  many  and  many  a  day; 
And  now  by  those  he  loves  relieved,  restored, 
His  very  wants  and  weaknesses  afford 
A  feeling  of  enjoyment.     In  his  walks, 
Leaning  on  them,  how  oft  he  stops  and  talks, 
While  they  look  up !  Their  questions,  their  replies, 
Fresh  as  the  welling  waters,  round  him  rise, 
Gladdening  his  spirit :  and,  his  theme  the  past, 
How  eloquent  he  is !  His  thoughts  flow  fast ; 
And,  while  his  heart  (oh,  can  the  heart  grow  old? 
False  are  the  tales  that  in  the  World  are  told !) 
Swells  in  his  voice,  he  knows  not  where  to  end; 
Like  one  discoursing  of  an  absent  friend. 

But  there  are  moments  which  he  calls  his  own. 
Then,  never  less  alone  than  when  alone, 
Those  that  he  loved  so  long  and  sees  no  more, 
Loved  and  still  loves  —  not  dead  —  but  gone  before, 


HUMAN     LIFE.  79 

He  gathers  round  him  ;  and  revives  at  will 

Scenes  in  his  life  —  that  breathe  enchantment  still  — 

That  come  not  now  at  dreary  intervals  — 

But  where  a  light  as  from  the  Blessed  falls, 

A  light  such  guests  bring  ever  —  pure  and  holy  — 

Lapping  the  soul  in  sweetest  melancholy  ! 

—  Ah  then  less  willing  (nor  the  choice  condemn) 

To  live  with  others  than  to  think  on  them ! 

And  now  behold  him  up  the  hill  ascending, 
Memory  and  Hope  like  evening-stars  attending; 
Sustained,  excited,  till  his  course  is  run, 
By  deeds  of  virtue  done  or  to  be  done. 
When  on  his  couch  he  sinks  at  length  to  rest,  •) 

Those  by  his  counsel  saved,  his  power  redressed, 
Those  by  the  World  shunned  ever  as  unblest,  J 

At  whom  the  rich  man's  dog  growls  from  the  gate, 
But  whom  he  sought  out,  sitting  desolate, 
Come  and  stand  round — :the  widow  with  her  child, 
As  when  she  first  forgot  her  tears  and  smiled ! 
They,  who  watch  by  him,  see  not;  but  he  sees, 
Sees  and  exults  —  Were  ever  dreams  like  these  ? 
They,  who  watch  by  him,  hear  not;  but  he  hears, 
And  Earth  recedes,  and  Heaven  itself  appears ! 

'Tis  past !     That  hand  we  grasped,  alas,  in  vain ! 
Nor  shall  we  look  upon  his  face  again ! 
But  to  his  closing  eyes,  for  all  were  there, 
Nothing  was  wanting;  and,  through  many  a  year 
We  shall  remember  with  a  fond  delight 
The  words  so  precious  which  we  heard  to-night : 
His  parting,  though  awhile  our  sorrow  flows, 
Like  setting  suns  or  music  at  the  close ! 


80  HUMAN    LIFE. 

Then  was  the  drama  ended.     Not  till  then, 
So  full  of  chance  and  change  the  lives  of  men, 
Could  we  pronounce  him  happy.     Then  secure 
From  pain,  from  grief,  and  all  that  we  endure, 
He  slept  in  peace  —  say  rather  soared  to  Heaven, 
Upborne  from  Earth  by  Him  to  whom  'tis  given 
In  his  right  hand  to  hold  the  golden  key 
That  opes  the  portals  of  Eternity. 
— When  by  a  good  man's  grave  I  muse  alone, 
Methinks  an  angel  sits  upon  the  stone ; 
Like  those  of  old,  on  that  thrice-hallowed  night, 
Who  sate  and  watched  in  raiment  heavenly  bright ; 
And,  with  a  voice  inspiring  joy  not  fear, 
Says,  pointing  upward,  "  Know,  He  is  not  here  !" 

But  now  'tis  time  to  go;  the  day  is  spent; 
And  stars  are  kindling  in  the  firmament, 
To  us  how  silent  —  though  like  ours  perchance 
Busy  and  full  of  life  and  circumstance ; 
Where  some  the  paths  of  Wealth  and  Power  pursue, 
Of  Pleasure  some,  of  Happiness  a  few; 
And,  as  the  sun  goes  round  —  a  sun  not  ours  — 
While  from  her  lap  another  Nature  showers 
Gifts  of  her  own,  some  from  the  crowd  retire, 
Think  on  themselves,  within,  without  inquire; 
At  distance  dwell  on  all  that  passes  there, 
All  that  their  world  reveals  of  good  and  fair ; 
And,  as  they  wander,  picturing  things,  like  me, 
Not  as  they  are  but  as  they  ought  to  be, 
Trace  out  the  Journey  through  their  little  Day, 
And  fondly  dream  an  idle  hour  away. 


Jlnbs  tn  Human  %iii. 


P.  55, 1.  12. 

Stand  still  to  gaze, 
See  the  Iliad,  1.  xviii.  v.  496. 

P.  57,  1.  5. 

Our  pathway  leads  but  to  a  precipice; 
See  BOSSUET,  Sermon  sur  la  Resurrection. 

P.  57,  1.  16. 
We  fly ;  no  resting  for  the  foot  we  find; 

"I  have  considered,"  says  Solomon,  "all  the  works  that  are  under 
the  sun;  and  behold  all  is  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit."  But  who 
believes  it,  till  death  tells  it  us  ?  It  is  death  alone  that  can  suddenly 
make  man  to  know  himself.  He  tells  the  proud  and  insolent,  that  they 
are  but  abject?,  and  humbles  them  at  the  instant.  He  takes  the 
account  of  the  rich  man,  and  proves  him  a  beggar,  a  naked  beggar. 
He  holds  a  glass  before  the  eyes  of  the  most  beautiful,  and  makes  them 
aee  therein  their  deformity ;  and  they  acknowledge  it. 

0  eloquent,  just,  and  mighty  Death !  whom  none  could  advise,  thou 
hast  persuaded ;  what  none  have  dared,  thou  hast  done ;  and  whom  all 
the  world  have  flattered,  thou  only  hast  cast  out  and  despised :  thou 
hast  drawn  together  all  the  far-stretched  greatness,  all  the  pride, 
cruelty,  and  ambition  of  man,  and  covered  it  all  over  with  these  two 
narrow  words,  Hicjacet. —  RALEIGH. 

P.  57,  1.  26. 

Now,  seraph-winged,  among  the  stars  tee  soar ; 

Inconceivable  are  the  limits  to  our  progress  in  Science.  "A  point 
that  yesterday  was  invisible,  is  our  goal  to-day,  and  will  be  our  start- 
ing-post to-morrow." 

L  (81) 


82  HUM  AN    LIFE. 

P.  57,  1.  32. 

Through  the  dim  curtains  of  Futurity. 

Fancy  can  hardly  forbear  to  conjecture  with  what  temper  Milton 
surveyed  the  silent  progress  of  his  work,  and  marked  his  reputation 
stealing  its  way  in  a  kind  of  subterraneous  current  through  fear  and 
silence.  I  cannot  but  conceive  him  calm  and  confident,  little  disap- 
pointed, not  at  all  dejected,  relying  on  his  own  merit  with  steady  con- 
sciousness, and  waiting,  without  impatience,  the  vicissitudes  of  opinion, 
and  the  impartiality  of  a  future  generation. — JOHNSON. 

After  line  32,  in  the  MS. 

O'er  place  and  time  we  triumph ;  on  we  go, 
Ranging  at  will  the  realms  above,  below ; 
Yet,  ah,  how  little  of  ourselves  we  know ! 
And  why  the  heart  beats  on,  or  how  the  brain 
Says  to  the  foot,  "Now  move,  now  rest  again." 
From  age  to  age  we  search  and  search  in  vain. 

P.  58,  1.  3. 

Behold  him  now  unbar  the  prison- door, 

An  allusion  to  John  Howard.  "Wherever  he  came,  in  whatever 
country,  the  prisons  and  hospitals  were  thrown  open  to  him  as  to  the 
general  Censor.  Such  is  the  force  of  pure  and  exalted  virtue !  " 

P.  58,  1.  11. 

Long  with  his  friend  in  generous  enmity, 

Aristotle's  definition  of  Friendship,  "one  soul  in  two  bodies,"  is  well 
exemplified  by  some  ancient  Author  in  a  dialogue  between  Ajax  and 
Achilles.  "Of  all  the  wounds  you  ever  received  in  battle,"  says  Ajax, 

"which  was  the  most  painful  to  you?" "That  which  I  received 

from  Hector,"  replies  Achilles. "But  Hector  never  gave  you  a 

wound  ? " "  Yes,  and  a  mortal  one ;  when  he  slew  my  friend,  Patro- 

clus." 

P.  58,  1.  19. 
Do  what  he  will,  $c. 

These  ideas,  whence  are  they  derived ;  or  as  Plato  would  have  ex- 
pressed himself,  where  were  they  acquired?  There  could  not  be  a 
better  argument  for  his  doctrine  of  a  pre-existent  state. 


HUMAN    LIFE.  83 

L'homme  ne  sait  a  quel  rang  se  mettre.  II  est  visiblement  dgare"  et 
sent  en  lui  des  restes  d'un  e"tat  heureux,  dont  il  est  de"chu,  et  qu'il  ne 
peut  retrouver.  II  le  chcrche  partout  avec  inquietude  et  sans  succes 
dans  des  t<>nebres  impene"trables. — Sa  misere  se  conclut  de  sa  grandeur, 
et  sa  grandeur  se  conclut  de  sa  misere. — PASCAL. 

P.  58,  1.  28. 
But  soon?  ti*  past — 

This  light,  which  is  so  heavenly  iu  its  lustre,  and  which  is  every- 
where and  on  everything  when  we  look  round  us  on  our  arrival  here  ; 
which,  while  it  lasts,  never  leaves  us,  rejoicing  us  by  night  as  well  as 
by  day,  and  lighting  up  our  very  dreams  ;  yet  when  it  fades,  fades  so 
fast,  and,  when  it  goes,  goes  out  for  ever, — we  may  address  it  in  the 
words  of  the  Poet,  words  which  we  might  apply  so  often  in  this  tran- 
sitory life : 

Too  soon  your  value  from  your  loss  we  learn  ! 

Epistles  in  Verse,  ii. 

P.  58,  1.  31. 

like  the  stone 

That  sheds  awhile  a  lustre  all  its  own, 

See  "  Observations  on  the  diamond  that  shines  in  the  dark." — BOYLE'S 
WOEKS,  I.  789. 

P.  59,  1.  14. 

Schooled  and  trained  up  to  Wisdom  from  his  birth  ; 

Cicero,  in  his  Essay  De  Senectute,  has  drawn  his  images  from  the 
better  walks  of  life ;  and  Shakspeare,  in  his  Seven  Ages,  has  done  so 
too.  But  Shakspeare  treats  his  subject  satirically;  Cicero  as  a  Philo- 
sopher. In  the  venerable  portrait  of  Cato  we  discover  no  traces  of 
"the  lean  and  slippered  Pantaloon." 

Every  object  has  a  bright  and  a  dark  side;  and  I  have  endeavoured 
to  look  at  things  as  Cicero  has  done.  By  some,  however,  I  may  be 
thought  to  have  followed  too  much  my  own  dream  of  happiness ;  and 
in  such  a  dream  indeed  I  have  often  passed  a  solitary  hour.  It  was 
Castle-building  once ;  now  it  is  no  longer  so.  But  whoever  would  try 
to  realise  it,  would  not  perhaps  repent  of  his  endeavour. 


84  HUMAN     LIFE. 

P.  59,  1.  17. 

The  day  arrives,  the  moment  wished  and  feared  ; 

A  Persian  Poet  has  left  us  a  beautiful  thought  on  this  subject,  which 
the  reader,  if  he  has  not  met  with  it,  will  be  glad  to  know,  and,  if  he 
has,  to  remember. 

Thee  on  thy  Mother's  knees,  a  new-born  child, 
In  tears  we  saw  when  all  around  thee  smiled. 
So  live,  that,  sinking  in  thy  last  long  sleep, 
Smiles  may  be  thine,  when  all  around  thee  weep. 

For  my  version  I  am  in  a  great  measure  indebted  to  Sir  William 
Jones. 

P.  61,  1.  3. 

"  These  are  MY  Jewels  /" 

The  anecdote  here  alluded  to,  is  related  by  Valerius  Maximus,  Lib. 
iv.  c.  4. 

P.  61,  1.  5. 

"  Suffer  these  little  ones  to  come  to  me!  " 

In  our  early  Youth,  while  yet  we  live  only  among  those  we  love,  we 
love  without  restraint,  and  our  hearts  overflow  in  every  look,  word,  and 
action.  But  when  we  enter  the  world  and  are  repulsed  by  strangers, 
forgotten  by  friends,  we  grow  more  and  more  timid  in  our  approaches 
even  to  those  we  love  best. 

How  delightful  to  us  then  are  the  little  caresses  of  children !  All 
sincerity,  all  affection,  they  fly  into  our  arms ;  and  then,  and  then  only, 
do  we  feel  our  first  confidence,  our  first  pleasure. 

P.  .61,1.  6. 

he  reveres 

The  brow  engraven  with  the  Thoughts  of  Years  ; 

This  is  a  law  of  Nature.  Age  was  anciently  synonymous  with  power ; 
and  we  may  always  observe  that  the  old  are  held  in  more  or  less  honour 
as  men  are  more  or  less  virtuous.  "Shame,"  says  Homer,  "bids  the 
youth  beware  how  he  accosts  the  man  of  many  years."  "  Thou  shalt 
rise  up  before  the  hoary  head,  and  honour  the  face  of  an  old  man."  — 
Leviticus. 


HUMAN    LIFE.  85 

Among  us,  and  wherever  birth  and  possessions  give  rank  and  au- 
thority, the  young  and  the  profligate  are  seen  continually  above  the  old 
and  the  worthy :  there  Age  can  never  find  its  due  respect.  But  among 
many  of  the  ancient  nations  it  was  otherwise ;  and  they  reaped  the 
benefit  of  it.  Rien  ne  maintient  plus  les  mceurs,  qu'une  extreme  sub- 
ordination des  jeunes  gens  envers  les  vieillards.  Les  unes  et  les  autres 
seront  contenus,  ceux-la  par  le  respect  qu'ils  auront  pour  les  vieillards, 
et  ceux-ci  par  le  respect  qu'ils  auront  pour  euxmenes. —  MONTESQUIEU. 

P.  61,  1.  18. 

Burns  as  they  turn,  and  with  congenial  fire. 

How  many  generations  have  past  away,  how  many  empires,  and  how 
many  languages,  since  Homer  sung  his  verses  to  the  Greeks !  Yet  the 
words  which  he  uttered  and  which  were  only  so  much  fleeting  breath, 
remain  entire  to  this  day,  and  will  now  in  all  probability  continue  to 
delight  and  instruct  mankind  as  long  as  the  world  endures. 

P.  61,  1.  19. 

Like  Her  most  gentle,  most  unfortunate. 

Before  I  went  into  Germany,  I  came  to  Brodegate  in  Leicestershire, 
to  take  my  leave  of  that  noble  Lady  Jane  Grey,  to  whom  I  was  exceed- 
ing much  beholding.  Her  parents,  the  Duke  and  Duchess,  with  all  the 
Household,  Gentlemen  and  Gentlewomen,  were  hunting  in  the  park.  I 
found  her  in  her  chamber,  reading  Phaedo  Platonis  in  Greek,  and  that 
with  as  much  delight  as  some  gentlemen  would  read  a  merry  tale  in 
Boccace.  After  salutation,  and  duty  done,  with  some  other  talk,  I 
asked  her,  why  she  would  lose  such  pastime  in  the  park  ?  Smiling,  she 
answered  me ;  "I  wist,  all  their  sport  in  the  park  is  but  a  shadow  to 
that  pleasure  which  I  find  in  Plato." — ROGER  ASCHAM. 

« 

P.  61,  1.  24. 

Then  in  the  Age  of  Admiration — 

Dante  in  his  old  age  was  pointed  out  to  Petrarch  when  a  boy ;  and 
Dryden  to  Pope. 

Who  does  not  wish  that  Dante  and  Dryden  could  have  known  the 
value  of  the  homage  that  was  paid  them,  and  foreseen  the  greatness 
of  their  young  admirers  ? 


86  HUMAN     LIFE. 

P.  62,  1.  16. 
And  MILTON'S  self 

I  began  thus  far  to  assent  ...  to  an  inward  prompting  which  now 
grew  daily  upon  me,  that  by  labour  and  intent  study,  (which  I  take  to 
be  my  portion  in  this  life)  joined  with  the  strong  propensity  of  nature, 
I  might  perhaps  leave  something  so  written  to  aftertimes,  as  they  should 
not  willingly  let  it  die.  —  MILTON. 

P.  64, 1.  3. 

.     .     .     'twas  at  matin-time 

Love  and  devotion  are  said  to  be  nearly  allied.  Boccacio  fell  in  love 
at  Naples  in  the  church  of  St.  Lorenzo ;  as  Petrarch  had  done  at  Avig- 
non in  the  church  of  St.  Clair. 

P.  76,  1.  17. 

Lovely  before,  oh,  say  how  lovely  now  ! 

Is  it  not  true,  that  the  young  not  only  appear  to  be,  but  really  are, 
most  beautiful  in  the  presence  of  those  they  love  ?  It  calls  forth  all 
their  beauty. 

P.  66,  1.  9. 

And  feeling  hearts — touch  them  but  rightly — pour 
A  thousand  melodies  unheard  before  1 

Xenophon  has  left  us  a  delightful  instance  of  conjugal  affection. 

The  king  of  Armenia  not  fulfilling  his  promise,  Cyrus  entered  the 
country,  and,  having  taken  him  and  all  his  family  prisoners,  ordered 
them  instantly  before  him.  Armenian,  said  he,  you  are  free ;  for  you 
are  now  sensible  of  your  error.  And  what  will  you  give  me,  if  I  re- 
store your  wife  to  you  ?  —  All  that  I  am  able. — What,  if  I  restore  your 
children  ?  —  All  that  I  am  able.  —  And  you,  Tigranes,  said  he,  turning 
to  the  Son,  What  would  you  do,  to  save  your  wife  from  servitude  ? 
Now  Tigranes  was  but  lately  married,  and  had  a  great  love  for  his  wife. 
Cyrus,  he  replied,  to  save  her  from  servitude,  I  would  willingly  lay 
down  my  life. 

Let  each  have  his  own  again,  said  Cyrus;  and,  when  he  was  de- 
parted, one  spoke  of  his  clemency;  and  another  of  his  valour;  and 
another  of  his  beauty  and  the  graces  of  his  person.  Upon  which  Ti- 
granes asked  his  wife,  if  she  thought  him  handsome.  Really,  said  she, 


HUMAN     LIFE.  87 

I  did  not  lock  at  him. — At  whom  then  did  you  look? — At  him  who 
said  he  would  lay  down  his  life  for  me.  —  Cyroptedia,  L.  III. 

P.  67,  1.  6. 

He  turns  their  thoughts  to  Him  who  made  them  all; 
When  such  is  the  ruling,  the  habitual  sentiment  of  our  minds,  the 
world  becomes  a  temple  and  life  itself  one  continued  act  of  adoration. 
—  Paley. 

P.  68,  1.  13. 
Through  the  night, 

Hers  the  mournful  privilege,  "  adsidere  valetudini,  fovere  deficientem, 
satiari  vultu,  complexu."  —  TACITUS. 

P.  68,  1.  15. 
she  sits  silent  by, 

We  may  have  many  friends  in  life ;  but  we  can  only  have  one  mother ; 
"  a  discovery,"  says  Gray,  "  which  I  never  made  till  it  was  too  late." 

The  child  is  no  sooner  born  than  he  clings  to  his  mother ;  nor,  while 
she  lives,  is  her  image  absent  from  him  in  the  hour  of  his  distress. 
Sir  John  Moore,  when  he  fell  from  his  horse  in  the  battle  of  Corunna, 
faltered  out  with  his  dying  breath  some  message  to  his  mother ;  and 
who  can  forget  the  last  words  of  Conradin,  when,  in  his  fifteenth  year, 
he  was  led  forth  to  die  at  Naples,  "  0  my  mother!  how  great  will  be 
your  grief,  when  you  hear  of  it !" 

P.  69,  1.  8. 

'dust  to  dust' 
How  exquisite  are  those  lines  of  Petrarch ! 

Le  crespe  chiome  d'or  puro  lucente, 
K'  1  lampcg^iar  d  'ell  angelico  rise, 
Che  solean  far  in  terra  un  paradiso, 
Poca  polvere  son,  die  nulla  sente. 

P.  69,  1.  17. 

He  goes,  and  Night  comes  as  it  never  came  ! 

These  circumstances,  as  well  as  some  others  that  follow,  are  happily, 
as  far  as  they  regard  England,  of  an  ancient  date.  To  us  the  miseries 


88  HUM  AX    LIFE. 

inflicted  by  a  foreign  invader  are  now  known  only  by  description. 
Many  generations  have  passed  away  since  our  countrywomen  saw  the 
smoke  of  an  enemy's  camp. 

But  the  same  passions  are  always  at  work  everywhere,  and  their 
effects  are  nearly  always  the  same ;  though  the  circumstances  that 
attend  them  are  infinitely  various. 

P.  70,  1.  4. 

Such  as  the  heart  delights  in  —  and  records 
Within  how  sikntly — 

Si  tout  cela  consistoit  en  faits,  en  actions,  en  paroles,  on  pourroit  le 
de"crire  et  le  rendre  en  quelque  fagon ;  mais  comment  dire  ce  qui 
n'6toit  ni  dit,  ni  fait,  ni  pense"  rneme,  mais  goute",  inais  senti. — Le  vrai 
bonheur  ne  se  de'crit  pas. — ROUSSEAU. 

P.  71,  1.  10. 

.     .     .     .     and,  when  all  are  there, 

So  many  pathetic  affections  are  awakened  by  every  exercise  of  social 
devotion,  that  most  men,  I  believe,  carry  away  from  public  worship  a 
better  temper  towards  the  rest  of  mankind  than  they  brought  with 
them.  Having  all  one  interest  to  secure,  one  Lord  to  serve,  one  Judg- 
ment to  look  forward  to,  we  cannot  but  remember  our  common  relation- 
ship, and  our  natural  equality  is  forced  upon  our  thoughts.  The  dis- 
tinctions of  civil  life  are  almost  always  insisted  upon  too  much,  and 
whatever  conduces  to  restore  the  level,  improves  the  character  on  both 
sides. — If  ever  the  poor  man  holds  up  his  head,  it  is  at  church ;  if 
ever  the  rich  man  looks  upon  him  with  respect,  it  is  there ;  and  both 
will  be  the  better  the  oftener  they  meet  where  the  feeling  of  superior- 
ity is  mitigated  in  the  one  and  the  spirit  of  the  other  is  erected  and 
confirmed. —  Paley. 

P.  72,  1.  5. 

Soon  through  the  gadding  vine,  $c. 

An  English  breakfast;  which  may  well  excite  in  others  what  in 
Rousseau  continued  through  life,  un  gout  vif  pour  les  dejeune"s.  C'est 
le  terns  de  la  Jem-ne'e  ou  nous  sommes  le  plus  tranquilles,  oil  nous  cau- 
sons  le  plus  a  notre  aise. 

The  luxuries  here  mentioned,  familiar  to  us  as  they  now  are,  were 
almost  unknown  before  the  Revolution. 


HUMAXLIFE.  89 

P.  73,  1.  1. 

With  honest  dignity, 

He,  who  resolves  to  rise  in  the  world  by  Politics  or  Religion,  can 
degrade  his  mind  to  any  degree,  when  he  sets  about  it.  Overcome  the 
first  scruple,  and  the  work  is  done.  "You  hesitate,"  said  one  who 
spoke  from  experience.  "Put  on  the  mask,  young  man ;  and  in  a  very 
little  while  you  will  not  know  it  from  your  own  face." 

P.  73,  1.  3. 
Like  HAMPDEN  struggling  in  his  Country1  s  cause, 

Zeuxis  is  said  to  have  drawn  his  Helen  from  an  assemblage  of  the 
most  beautiful  women ;  and  many  a  Writer  of  Fiction,  in  forming  a 
life  to  his  mind,  has  recourse  to  the  brightest  moments  in  the  lives  of 
others. 

I  may  be  suspected  of  having  done  so  here,  and  having  designed,  as 
it  were,  from  living  models ;  but,  by  making  an  allusion  now  and  then 
to  those  who  have  really  lived,  I  thought  I  should  give  something  of 
interest  to  the  picture,  as  well  as  better  illustrate  my  meaning. 

P.  73,  1.  6. 

Careless  of  blame,  while  his  own  heart  approves, 
Careless  of  ruin  — 

"  By  the  Mass ! "  said  the  Duke  of  Norfolk  to  Sir  Thomas  More,  "  By 
the  Mass !  master  More,  it  is  perilous  striving  with  princes ;  the  anger 
of  a  prince  is  death." — "  Is  that  all,  my  lord?  then  the  difference  between 
you  and  me  is  but  this. — that  I  shall  die  to-day,  and  you  to-morrow. — 
ROPER'S  Life. 

P.  73,  1.  6. 

On  thro'  that  gate  misnamed, 
Traitor's  Gate,  the  water-gate  in  the  Tower  of  London. 

P.  73,  1.  12. 

Then  to  the  place  of  trial; 

This  very  slight  sketch  of  Civil  Dissension  is  taken  from  our  own 
annals ;  but,  for  an  obvious  reason,  not  from  those  of  our  own  Age. 
The  persons,  here  immediately  alluded  to,  lived  more  than  a  hundred 
8*  M 


90  HUMAN     LIFE. 

years  ago,  in  a  reign  which  Blackstone  has  justly  represented  as  wicked, 
sanguinary,  and  turbulent ;  but  such  times  have  always  afforded  the 
most  signal  instances  of  heroic  courage  and  ardent  affection. 

Great  reverses,  like  theirs,  lay  open  the  human  heart.  They  occur 
indeed  but  seldom ;  yet  all  men  are  liable  to  them  ;  all,  when  they  occur 
to  others,  make  them  more  or  less  their  own ;  and,  were  we  to  describe 
our  condition  to  an  inhabitant  of  some  other  planet,  could  we  omit 
what  forms  so  striking  a  circumstance  in  human  life  ? 

P.  73,  1.  12. 

and  alone, 

A  prisoner,  prosecuted  for  high  treason,  may  now  make  his  defence 
by  counsel.  In  the  reign  of  William  the  Third  the  law  was  altered ; 
and  it  was  in  rising  to  urge  the  necessity  of  an  alteration,  that  Lord 
Shaftesbury,  with  such  admirable  quickness,  took  advantage  of  the 
embarrassment  that  seized  him.  "  If  I,"  said  he,  "  who  rise  only  to 
give  my  opinion  of  this  bill,  am  so  confounded  that  I  cannot  say  what 
I  intended,  what  must  be  the  condition  of  that  man,  who,  without  any 
assistance,  is  pleading  for  his  life  ?  " 

P.  73, 1.  17. 

Like  that  sweet  saint  who  sate  by  RUSSELL'S  side 
Under  the  Judgment-seat. 

Lord  Russell.  May  I  have  somebody  to  write,  to  assist  my  memory. 
Mr.  Attorney  General.  Yes,  a  Servant. 

Lord  Chief  Justice.  Any  of  your  servants  shall  assist  you  in  writing 
any  thing  you  please  for  you. 
Lord  Russell.  My  Wife  is  here,  my  Lord,  to  do  it. — STATE  TRIALS,  II. 

P.  73,  1.  23. 

Thrice  greeting  those  who  most  withdraw  their  claim, 
See  the  Alcestis  of  Euripidej,  v.  194. 

P.  73, 1.  28.. 
Lo,  there  the  Friend. 
Such  as  Russell  found  in  Cavendish ;  and  such  as  many  have  found. 


HUMAN    LIFE.  91 

P.  74,  1.  1. 

And  when  her  dear,  dear  father  passed  along, 

An  allusion  to  the  last  interview  of  Sir  Thomas  More  and  his  daugh- 
ter Margaret.  "Dear  Meg,"  said  he,  when  afterwards  with  a  coal  he 
wrote  to  bid  her  farewell,  "  I  never  liked  your  manner  towards  me 
better ;  for  I  like  when  daughterly  love  and  dear  charity  have  no  leisure 
to  look  to  worldly  courtesy." — ROPER'S  LIFE. 

P.  74, 1.  14. 

Her  glory  now,  as  ever  her  delight! 

Epaminondas,  after  his  victory  at  Leuctra,  rejoiced  most  of  all  at  the 
pleasure  which  it  would  give  his  father  and  mother ;  and  who  would 
not  have  envied  them  their  feelings  ? 

Cornelia  was  called  at  Rome  the  Mother-in-law  of  Scipio.  "  When," 
said  she  to  her  sons,  "  shall  I  be  called  the  Mother  of  the  Gracchi!" 

P.  76,  1.  17. 

Immoveable — for  ever  there  to  freeze! 

She  was  under  all  her  sails,  and  looked  less  like  a  ship  incrusted 
with  ice  than  ice  in  the  fashion  of  a  ship.  —  See  the  Voyage  of  Captain 
Thomas  James,  in  1631. 

P.  76,  1.  23. 
Of  burning  sand  their  everlasting  grave! — 

After  I.  23  in  the  MS. 

Now  the  scene  shifts  to  Cashmere  —  to  a  glade 
Where,  with  her  loved  gazelle,  the  dark-eyed  Maid 
(Her  fragrant  chamber  for  awhile  resigned, 
Her  lute,  by  fits  discoursing  with  the  wind) 
Wanders  well-pleased,  what  time  the  Nightingale 
Sings  to  the  Rose,  rejoicing  hill  and  dale; 
And  now  to  Venice  —  to  a  bridge,  a  square,  &c. 

P.  77,  1.  3. 

Lo,  on  his  back  a  Son  brings  in  his  Sire, 

An  act  of  filial  piety  represented  on  the  coins  of  Catana,  a  Greek 
city,  some  remains  of  which  are  still  to  be  seen  at  the  foot  of  Mount 


92  HUMAN    LIFE. 


The  story  is  told  of  two  brothers,  who  in  this  manner  saved 
both  their  parents.  The  place  from  which  they  escaped,  was  long 
called  the  field  of  the  pious  ;  and  public  games  were  annually  held 
there  to  commemorate  the  event. 

P.  77,  1.  7. 
From  lute  or  organ  ! 

What  a  pleasing  picture  of  domestic  life  is  given  to  us  by  Bishop 
Berkeley  in  his  letters  !  "  The  more  we  have  of  good  instruments,  the 
better  :  for  all  my  children,  not  excepting  my  little  daughter,  learn  to 
play,  and  are  preparing  to  fill  my  house  with  harmony  against  all 
events  ;  that,  if  we  have  worse  times,  we  may  have  better  spirits." 

P.  77,  1.  13. 

And  with  assurance  sweet  her  soul  revive 
In  child-birth  — 
See  the  Alcestis  of  Euripides,  v.  328. 

P.  77,  1.  19. 

Who  lives  not  for  another. 

How  often,  says  an  excellent  writer,  do  we  err  in  our  estimate  of 
happiness  !  When  I  hear  of  a  man  who  has  noble  parks,  splendid 
palaces,  and  every  luxury  in  life,  I  always  inquire  whom  he  has  to 
love;  and,  if  I  find  he  has  nobody  or  does  not  love  those  he  has  —  in 
the  midst  of  all  his  grandeur  I  pronounce  him  a  being  in  deep  adversity. 

P.  77,  1.  28. 

0  thou  all-eloquent,  whose  mighty  mind 

Cicero.  It  is  remarkable  that,  among  the  comforts  of  Old  Age,  he 
has  not  mentioned  those  arising  from  the  society  of  women  and  chil- 
dren. Perhaps  the  husband  of  Terentia  and  "  the  father  of  Marcus 
felt  something  on  the  subject,  of  which  he  was  willing  to  spare  himself 
the  recollection." 

P.  80,  1.  15. 

And  stars  are  kindling  in  the  firmament, 
An  old  writer  breaks  off  in  a  very  lively  manner  at  a  later  hour  of 


HUMAN     LIFE.  93 

the  night.  "  But  the  Hyades  run  low  in  the  heavens,  and  to  keep  our 
eyes  open  any  longer  were  to  act  our  Antipodes.  The  Huntsmen  are 
up  in  America,  and  they  are  already  past  their  first  sleep  in  Persia." 


BEFORE  I  conclude,  I  would  say  something  in  favour  of  the  old- 
fashioned  triplet,  which  I  have  here  ventured  to  use  so  often.  Dryden 
seems  to  have  delighted  in  it,  and  in  many  of  his  poems  has  used  it 
much  oftener  than  I  have  done,  as  for  instance  in  the  Hind  and  Pan- 
ther,* and  in  Theodore  and  Honoria,  where  he  introduces  it  three, 
four,  and  even  five  times  in  succession. 

If  I  have  erred  any  where  in  the  structure  of  my  verse  from  a  desire 
to  follow  yet  earlier  and  higher  examples,  I  rely  on  the  forgiveness  of 
those  in  whose  ear  the  music  of  our  old  versification  is  still  sounding.^ 

*  Pope  used  to  mention  this  poem  as  the  most  correct  specimen  of  Dryden's  versifi- 
cation. It  was  indeed  written  when  he  had  completely  formed  his  manner,  and  may 
be  supposed  to  exhibit,  negligence  excepted,  his  deliberate  and  ultimate  scheme  of 
metre.  —  JOHNSON. 

t  With  regard  to  trisyllables,  as  their  accent  is  very  rarely  on  the  last,  they  cannot 
properly  be  any  rhymes  at  all :  yet  nevertheless  I  highly  commend  those,  who  have 
judiciously  and  sparingly  introduced  them,  as  such.  —  GRAY. 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  A  FRIEND 

1798. 


Villula,     .     .     .     .     et  pauper  agelle, 

Me  tibi,  et  hos  una  mecum,  quos  semper  amavi, 

Commendo. 


PREFACE. 

EVERY  reader  turns  with  pleasure  to  those  passages  of 
Horace,  and  Pope,  and  Boileau,  which  describe  how  they 
lived  and  where  they  dwelt ;  and  which,  being  interspersed 
among  their  satirical  writings,  derive  a  secret  and  irresisti- 
ble grace  from  the  contrast,  and  are  admirable  examples 
of  what  in  Painting  is  termed  repose. 

We  have  admittance  to  Horace  at  all  hours.  We  enjoy 
the  company  and  conversation  at  his  table;  and  his 
suppers,  like  Plato's  "non  solum  in  prsesentia,  sed  etiam 
postero  die  jucundse  sunt."  But,  when  we  look  round  as 
we  sit  there,  we  find  ourselves  in  a  Sabine  farm,  and  not 
in  a  Roman  villa.  His  windows  have  every  charm  of 
prospect ;  but  his  furniture  might  have  descended  from 
Cincinnatus ;  and  gems,  and  pictures,  and  old  marbles, 
are  mentioned  by  him  more  than  once  with  a  seeming 
indifference. 

(94) 


AN    EPISTLE    TO     A    FRIEND.  95 

His  English  Imitator  thought  and  felt,  perhaps,  more 
correctly  on  the  subject ;  and  embellished  his  garden  and 
grotto  with  great  industry  and  success.  But  to  these 
alone  he  solicits  our  notice.  On  the  ornaments  of  his 
house  he  is  silent ;  and  he  appears  to  have  reserved  all 
the  minuter  touches  of  his  pencil  for  the  library,  the 
chapel,  and  the  banqueting-room  of  Timon.  "Le  savoir 
de  notre  siecle,"  says  Rousseau,  "tend  beaucoup  plus  a 
detruire  qu'a  edifier.  On  censure  d'un  ton  de  maitre ; 
pour  proposer,  il  en  faut  prendre  un  autre." 

It  is  the  design  of  this  Epistle  to  illustrate  the  virtue 
of  True  Taste ;  and  to  show  how  little  she  requires  to 
secure,  not  only  the  comforts,  but  even  the  elegancies  of 
life.  True  Taste  is  an  excellent  Economist.  She  confines 
her  choice  to  few  objects,  and  delights  in  producing  great 
effects  by  small  means ;  while  False  Taste  is  for  ever 
sighing  after  the  new  and  the  rare ;  and  reminds  us,  in 
her  works,  of  the  Scholar  of  Apelles,  who,  not  being 
able  to  paint  his  Helen  beautiful,  determined  to  make  her 
fine. 


An  invitation — The  approach  to  a  Villa  described — Its  situation — Its  few 
apartments — Furnished  with  casts  from  the  Antique,  $c.  — The  dining- 
room— The  library — A  cold-bath — A  winter-walk — A  summer-icalk — 
The  invitation  renewed — Conclusion. 

WHEN,  with  a  REAUMUR'S  skill,  thy  curious  mind 
Has  classed  the  insect-tribes  of  human-kind, 
Each  with  its  busy  hum,  or  gilded  wing, 
Its  subtle  web-work,  or  its  venomed  sting; 


96  AN    EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND. 

Let  me,  to  claim  a  few  unvalued  hours, 

Point  out  the  green  lane  rough  with  fern  and  flowers; 

The  sheltered  gate  that  opens  to  my  field, 

And  the  white  front  thro'  mingling  elms  revealed. 

In  vain,  alas,  a  village-friend  invites 
To  simple  comforts,  and  domestic  rites, 
When  the  gay  months  of  Carnival  resume 
Their  annual  round  of  glitter  and  perfume ; 
When  London  hails  thee  to  its  splendid  mart, 
Its  hives  of  sweets,  and  cabinets  of  art; 
And,  lo,  majestic  as  thy  manly  song, 
Flows  the  full  tide  of  human  life  along. 

Still  must  my  partial  pencil  love  to  dwell 
On  the  home  prospects  of  my  hermit-cell; 
The  mossy  pales  that  skirt  the  orchard-green, 
Here  hid  by  shrub-wood,  there  by  glimpses  seen; 
And  the  brown  path-way,  that,  with  careless  flow, 
Sinks,  and  is  lost  among  the  trees  below. 
Still  must  it  trace  (the  flattering  tints  forgive) 
Each  fleeting  charm  that  bids  the  landscape  live. 
Oft  o'er  the  mead,  at  pleasing  distance,  pass 
Browsing  the  hedge  by  fits  the  panniered  ass; 
The  idling  shepherd-boy,  with  rude  delight, 
Whistling  his  dog  to  mark  the  pebble's  flight; 
And  in  her  kerchief  blue  the  cottage-maid, 
WTith  brimming  pitcher  from  the  shadowy  glade. 
Far  to  the  south  a  mountain-vale  retires, 
Rich  in  its  groves,  and  glens,  and  village-spires; 
Its  upland-lawns,  and  cliff's  with  foliage  hung, 
Its  wizard-stream,  nor  nameless  nor  unsung: 
And  through  the  various  year,  the  various  day, 
What  scenes  of  glory  burst,  and  melt  away ! 


AN    EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND.  97 

When  April-verdure  springs  in  Grosvenor-square, 
And  the  furred  Beauty  comes  to  winter  there, 
She  bids  old  Nature  mar  the  plan  no  more; 
Yet  still  the  seasons  circle  as  before. 
Ah,  still  as  soon  the  young  Aurora  plays, 
Tho'  moons  and  flambeaux  trail  their  broadest  blaze ; 
As  soon  the  sky-lark  pours  his  matin-song, 
Tho'  Evening  lingers  at  the  masque  so  long. 

There  let  her  strike  with  momentary  ray, 
As  tapers  shine  their  little  lives  away; 
There  let  her  practise  from  herself  to  steal, 
And  look  the  happiness  she  does  not  feel ; 
The  ready  smile  and  hidden  blush  employ 
At  Faro-routs  that  dazzle  to  destroy ; 
Fan  with  affected  ease  the  essenced  air, 
And  lisp  of  fashions  with  unmeaning  stare. 
Be  thine  to  meditate  an  humbler  flight, 
When  morning  fills  the  fields  with  rosy  light ; 
Be  thine  to  blend,  nor  thine  a  vulgar  aim, 
Repose  with  dignity,  with  Quiet  fame. 

Here  no  state-chambers  in  long  line  unfold, 
Bright  with  broad  mirrors,  rough  with  fretted  gold ; 
Yet  modest  ornament,  with  use  combined, 
Attracts  the  eye  to  exercise  the  mind. 
Small  change  of  scene,  small  space  his  home  requires, 
Who  leads  a  life  of  satisfied  desires. 

What  tho'  no  marble  breathes,  no  canvas  glows, 
From  every  point  a  ray  of  genius  flows ! 
Be  mine  to  bless  the  more  mechanic  skill, 
That  stamps,  renews,  and  multiplies  at  will; 
And  cheaply  circulates,  thro'  distant  climes, 
The  fairest  relics  of  the  purest  times. 
9  N 


98  AN    EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND. 

Here  from  the  mould  to  conscious  being  start 
Those  finer  forms,  the  miracles  of  art; 
Here  chosen  gems,  imprest  on  sulphur,  shine, 
That  slept  for  ages  in  a  second  mine; 
And  here  the  faithful  graver  dares  to  trace 
A  MICHAEL'S  grandeur,  and  a  RAPHAEL'S  grace! 
Thy  gallery,  Florence,  gilds  my  humble  walls; 
And  my  low  roof  the  Vatican  recalls ! 

Soon  as  the  morning-dream  my  pillow  flies, 
To  waking  sense  what  brighter  visions  rise ! 
0  mark!  again  the  coursers  of  the  Sun, 
At  GUIDO'S  call,  their  round  of  glory  run ! 
Again  the  rosy  Hours  resume  their  flight, 
Obscured  and  lost  in  floods  of  golden  light ! 

But  could  thine  erring  friend  so  long  forget 
(Sweet  source  of  pensive  joy  and  fond  regret) 
That  here  its  warmest  hues  the  pencil  flings, 
Lo !  here  the  lost  restores,  the  absent  brings ; 
And  still  the  Few  best  loved  and  most  revered 
Rise  round  the  board  their  social  smile  endeared? 
Selected  shelves  shall  claim  thy  studious  hours ; 
There  shall  thy  ranging  mind  be  fed  on  flowers !  * 
There,  while  the  shaded  lamp's  mild  lustre  streams, 
Read  ancient  books,  or  dream  inspiring  dreams ; 
And,  when  a  sage's  bust  arrests  thee  there, 
Pause,  and  his  features  with  his  thoughts  compare. 
—  Ah,  most  that  Art  my  grateful  rapture  calls, 
Which  breathes  a  soul  into  the  silent  walls  ;f 

*  .     .     apis  Matinaa 

More  modoque 

Grata  carpentis  thyma    .     .     . —  Hon. 

•j-  Postea  verb  quam  Tyrannic  mild  libros  disposuit,  mens  addita 
videtur  meis  sedibus. —  Cic. 


AN     EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND.  99 

Which  gathers  round  the  Wise  of  every  Tongue, 
All  on  whose  words  departed  nations  hung ; 
Still  prompt  to  charm  with  many  a  converse  sweet ; 
Guides  in  the  world,  companions  in  retreat ! 

Tho'  my  thatched  bath  no  rich  Mosaic  knows, 
A  limpid  spring  with  unfelt  current  flows. 
Emblem  of  Life !  which,  still  as  we  survey, 
Seems  motionless,  yet  ever  glides  away ! 
The  shadowy  walls  record,  with  Attic  art, 
The  strength  and  beauty  which  its  waves  impart. 
Here  THETIS,  bending,  with  a  mother's  fears 
Dips  her  dear  boy,  whose  pride  restrains  his  tears. 
There  VENUS,  rising,  shrinks  with  sweet  surprise, 
As  her  fair  self  reflected  seems  to  rise ! 

Far  from  the  joyless  glare,  the  maddening  strife, 
And  all  the  dull  impertinence  of  life, 
These  eyelids  open  to  the  rising  ray, 
And  close,  when  Nature  bids,  at  close  of  day.  ' 
Here,  at  the  dawn,  the  kindling  landscape  glows ; 
There  noon-day  levees  call  from  faint  repose. 
Here  the  flushed  wave  flings  back  the  parting  light; 
There  glimmering  lamps  anticipate  the  night. 
When  from  his  classic  dreams  the  student  steals,* 
Amid  the  buzz  of  crowds,  the  whirl  of  wheels, 
To  muse  unnoticed  —  while  around  him  press 
The  meteor-forms  of  equipage  and  dress; 
Alone,  in  wonder  lost,  he  seems  to  stand 
A  very  stranger  in  his  native  land! 

*  Ingenium,  sibi  quod  vacuas  desumsit  Athenas, 
Et  studiis  annos  septem  dedit,  insenuitque 
Libris  et  curis,  statua  taciturnius  exit 
Plerumque     .     .     .     . — HOK. 


100  AN    EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND. 

And  (tho'  perchance  of  current  coin  possest, 
And  modern  phrase  by  living  lips  exprest) 
Like  those  blest  youths,  forgive  the  fabling  page, 
Whose  blameless  lives  deceived  a  twilight  age, 
Spent  in  sweet  slumbers;  till  the  miner's  spade 
Unclosed  the  cavern,  and  the  morning  played. 
Ah,  what  their  strange  surprise,  their  wild  delight ! 
New  arts  of  life,  new  manners  meet  their  sight ! 
In  a  new  world  they  wake,  as  from  the  dead ; 
Yet  doubt  the  trance  dissolved,  the  vision  fled ! 

0  come,  and,  rich  in  intellectual  wealth, 
Blend  thought  with  exercise,  with  knowledge  health; 
Long,  in  this  sheltered  scene  of  lettered  talk, 
With  sober  step  repeat  the  pensive  walk, 
Nor  scorn,  when  graver  triflings  fajl  to  please, 
Tho  cheap  amusements  of  a  mind  at  ease ; 
Here  every  care  in  sweet  oblivion  cast, 
And  many  an  idle  hour  —  not  idly  passed. 

No  tuneful  echoes,  ambushed  at  my  gate, 
Catch  the  blest  accents  of  the  wise  and  great. 
Vain  of  its  various  page,  no  Album  breathes 
The  sigh  that  Friendship  or  the  Muse  bequeaths. 
Yet  some  good  Genii  o'er  my  hearth  preside, 
Oft  the  far  friend,  with  secret  spell  to  guide; 
And  there  I  trace,  when  the  grey  evening  lours, 
A  silent  chronicle  of  happier  hours ! 

When  Christmas  revels  in  a  world  of  snow, 
And  bids  her  berries  blush,  her  carols  flow, 
His  spangling  shower  when  Frost  the  wizard  flings; 
Or,  borne  in  ether  blue,  on  viewless  wings, 
O'er  the  white  pane  his  silvery  foliage  weaves, 
And  gems  with  icicles  the  sheltering  eaves; 


AN    EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND.  101 

—  Thy  muffled  friend  his  nectarine-wall  pursues, 
What  time  the  sun  the  yellow  crocus  woos, 
Screened  from  the  arrowy  North ;  and  duly  hies  * 
To  meet  the  morning-rumour  as  it  flies ; 
To  range  the  murmuring  market-place,  and  view 
The  motley  groups  that  faithful  TENIERS  drew. 

When  Spring  bursts  forth  in  blossoms  thro'  the  vale. 
And  her  wild  music  triumphs  on  the  gale, 
Oft  with  my  book  I  muse  from  stile  to  stile  ;f 
Oft  in  my  porch  the  listless  noon  beguile, 
Framing  loose  numbers,  till  declining  day 
Thro'  the  green  trellis  shoots  a  crimson  ray; 
Till  the  West-wind  leads  on  the  twilight  hours, 
And  shakes  the  fragrant  bells  of  closing  flowers. 

Nor  boast,  0  Choisy,  seat  of  soft  delight, 
The  secret  charm  of  thy  voluptuous  night. 
Vain  is  the  blaze  of  wealth,  the  pomp  of  power ! 
Lo,  here,  attendant  on  the  shadowy  hour, 
Thy  closet-supper,  served  by  hands  unseen, 
Sheds,  like  an  evening-star,  its  ray  serene, 
To  hail  our  coming.     Not  a  step  profane 
Dares,  with  rude  sound,  the  cheerful  rite  restrain; 
And,  while  the  frugal  banquet  glows  revealed, 
Pure  and  unbought|  —  the  natives  of  my  field; 
While  blushing  fruits  thro'  scattered  leaves  invite, 
Still  clad  in  bloom,  and  veiled  in  azure  light ;  — 
With  wine,  as  rich  in  years  as  HORACE  sings, 
With  water,  clear  as  his  own  fountain  flings, 

*  Fallacem  circum,  vespertinumque  pererro 

Ssepe  forum.  —  HOR. 

•}•  Tantot,  un  livre  en  main,  errant  dans  les  pre"ries  .  .  BOILEAU. 
J  Dapes  iuemtas     ...  —  HOR. 

9* 


102  AN    EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND. 

The  shifting  side-board  plays  its  humbler  part, 
Beyond  the  triumphs  of  a  Loriot's  art. 

Thus,  in  this  calm  recess,  so  richly  fraught 
With  mental  light,  and  luxury  of  thought, 
My  life  steals  on ;  (0  could  it  blend  with  thine !) 
Careless  uiy  course,  yet  not  without  design. 
So  thro'  the  vales  of  Loire  the  bee-hives  glide, 
The  light  raft  dropping  with  the  silent  tide ; 
So,  till  the  laughing  scenes  are  lost  in  night, 
The  busy  people  wing  their  various  flight, 
Culling  unnumbered  sweets  from  nameless  flowers, 
That  scent  the  vineyard  in  its  purple  hours. 

Rise,  ere  the  watch-relieving  clarions  play, 
Caught  thro'  St.  James's  grove  at  blush  of  day; 
Ere  its  full  voice  the  choral  anthem  flings 
Thro'  trophied  tombs  of  heroes  and  of  kings. 
Haste  to  the  tranquil  shade  of  learned  ease,* 
Tho'  skilled  alike  to  dazzle  and  to  please ; 
Tho'  each  gay  scene  be  searched  with  anxious  eye, 
Nor  thy  shut  door  be  passed  without  a  sigh. 

If,  when  this  roof  shall  know  thy  friend  no  more, 
Some,  formed  like  thee,  should  once,  like  thee,  explore ; 
Invoke  the  lares  of  his  loved  retreat, 
And  his  lone  walks  imprint  with  pilgrim-feet; 
Then  be  it  said,  (as,  vain  of  better  days, 
Some  grey  domestic  prompts  the  partial  praise) 
"  Unknown  he  lived,  unenvied,  not  unblest ; 
Reason  his  guide,  and  Happiness  his  guest. 
In  the  clear  mirror  of  his  moral  page, 
We  trace  the  manners  of  a  purer  age. 

*  Innocuas  amo  delicias  doctamque  quietem. 


AN    EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND.  103 

His  soul,  with  thirst  of  genuine  glory  fraught, 
Scorned  the  false  lustre  of  licentious  thought. 
—  One  fair  asylum  from  the  world  he  knew, 
One  chosen  seat,  that  charms  with  various  view! 
Who  boasts  of  more  (believe  the  serious  strain) 
Sighs  for  a  home,  and  sighs,  alas !  in  vain. 
Thro'  each  he  roves,  the  tenant  of  a  day, 
And,  with  the  swallow,  wings  the  year  away !" 


tn  an  ^istU  tn  a 


P.  96,  1.  21. 

Oft  o'er  the  mead,  at  pleasing  distance  pass 

COSMO  of  Medicis  took  most  pleasure  in  his  Apennine  villa,  because 
all  that  he  commanded  from  its  windows  was  exclusively  his  own.  How 
unlike  the  wise  Athenian,  who,  when  he  had  a  farm  to  sell,  directed  the 
crier  to  proclaim,  as  its  best  recommendation,  that  it  had  a  good  neigh- 
bourhood !  —  PLUT.  in  Vit.  Themist. 

P.  96,  1.  31. 

And  through  the  various  year,  the  various  day, 

Horace  commends  the  house,  "  longos  quae  prospicit  agros."  Distant 
views  contain  the  greatest  variety,  both  in  themselves,  and  in  their  ac- 
cidental variations. 

P.  97,  1.  25. 
Small  change  of  scene,  small  space  his  home  requires, 

Many  a  great  man,  in  passing  through  the  apartments  of  his  palace, 
has  made  the  melancholy  reflection  of  the  venerable  Cosmo:  "Questa 
e  troppo  gran  casa  a  si  poca  famiglia." — MACH.  1st.  Fior.  Jib.  vii. 

"  Parva,  sed  apta  mihi,"  was  Ariosto's  inscription  over  his  door  iu 
Ferrara ;  and  who  can  wish  to  say  more ?  "I  confess,"  says  Cowley, 
"  I  love  littleness  almost  in  all  things.  A  little  convenient  estate,  a 
little  cheerful  house,  a  little  company,  and  a  very  little  feast." — Essay  vi. 

AVhen  Socrates  was  asked  why  he  had  built  for  himself  so  small  a 
house:  "Small  as  it  is,"  he  replied,  "I  wish  I  could  fill  it  with 
friends." — PH.EDRITS,  iii.  9. 

These  indeed  are  all  that  a  wise  man  can  desire  to  assemble ;  for  a 
crowd  is  not  company,  and  faces  are  but  a  gallery  of  pictures,  and  talk 
but  a  tinkling  cymbal,  where  there  is  no  love. " 

(104) 


AN    EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND.  105 

P.  97,  1.  28. 
From  every  point  a  ray  of  genius  flows! 

By  these  means,  when  all  nature  wears  a  lowering  countenance,  I 
withdraw  myself  into  the  visionary  worlds  of  art ;  where  I  meet  with 
shining  landscapes,  gilded  triumphs,  beautiful  faces,  and  all  those  other 
objects  that  fill  the  mind  with  gay  ideas. —  ADDISON. 

It  is  remarkable  that  Antony,  in  his  adversity,  passed  some  time  in 
a  small  but  splendid  retreat,  which  he  called  his  Timonium,  and  from 
which  might  originate  the  idea  of  the  Parisian  Boudoir,  that  favourite 
apartment,  oil  Von  se  retire  pour  ttre  seul,  mais  oil  Von  ne  boude  point.  — 
STRABO,  1.  xvii.  PLUT.  in  Vit.  Anton. 

P.  98,  1.  12. 

At  GFIDO'S  call,  $c. 

Alluding  to  his  celebrated  fresco  in  the  Rospigliosi  Palace  at  Rome. 

P.  98,  1.  19. 
And  still  the  Few  best  loved  and  most  revered 

The  dining-room  is  dedicated  to  Conviviality ;  or,  as  Cicero  some- 
where expresses  it,  "  Communitati  vitae  atque  victus."  There  we  wish 
most  for  the  society  of  our  friends ;  and,  perhaps,  in  their  absence, 
most  require  their  portraits. 

The  moral  advantages  of  this  furniture  may  be  illustrated  by  the 
story  of  an  Athenian  courtesan,  who,  in  the  midst  of  a  riotous  banquet 
with  her  lovers,  accidentally  cast  her  eyes  on  the  portrait  of  a  philoso- 
pher, that  hung  opposite  to  her  seat ;  the  happy  character  of  wisdom 
and  virtue  struck  her  with  so  lively  an  image  of  her  own  unworthiness, 
that  she  instantly  left  the  room ;  and,  retiring  home,  became  ever  after- 
wards an  example  of  temperance,  as  she  had  been  before  of  debauchery. 

P.  98,  1.  20. 

Rise  round  the  board 

"Along  table  and  a  square  table,"  says  Bacon,  "seem  things  of 
form,  but  are  things  of  substance ;  for  at  a  long  table  a  few  at  the 
upper  end,  in  effect,  sway  all  the  business."  Perhaps  Arthur  was  right, 
when  he  instituted  the  order  of  the  round  table.  In  the  town-house 

0 


106  AX    EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND. 

of  Aix-la-Chapelle  is  still  to  be  seen  the  round  table,  which  may  almost 
literally  be  said  to  have  given  peace  to  Europe  in  1748.  Nor  is  it  only 
at  a  congress  of  Plenipotentiaries  that  place  gives  precedence. 

P.  98,  1.  25. 

Read  ancient  books,  or  dream  inspiring  dreams  ; 

Before  I  begin  to  write,  says  Bossuet,  I  always  read  a  little  of  Homer ; 
for  I  love  to  light  my  lamp  at  the  sun. 

The  reader  will  here  remember  that  passage  of  Horace,  Nunc  veterum 
libris,  nunc  somno,  $c.  which  was  inscribed  by  Lord  Chesterfield  on  the 
frieze  of  his  library. 

P.  98,  1.  26. 
And,  when  a  sage's  bust  arrests  thee  there, 

Siquidem  non  solum  ex  auro  argentove,  aut  certe  ex  ssre  in  biblio- 
thecis  dicantur  illi,  quorum  immortales  animae  in  iisdem  locis  ibi  loqu- 
untur:  quinimo  etiam  quse  non  sunt,  finguntur,  pariuntque  desideria 
non  traditi  vultus,  sicut  in  Homero  evenit.  Quo  majus  (ut  equidem 
nrbitror)  nullum  est  felicitatis  specimen,  quam  semper  onmes  scire 
cupere,  qualis  fuerit  aliquis. — PUN.  NAT.  HIST. 

Cicero,  in  the  dialogue  entitled  Brutus,  represents  Brutus  and  Atticus 
as  sitting  down  with  him  in  his  garden  at  Rome,  by  the  statue  of  Plato ; 
and  with  what  delight  does  he  speak  of  a  little  seat  under  Aristotle  in 
the  library  of  Atticus !  "  Literis  sustentor  et  recreor ;  maloque  in  ilia 
tua  sedecula,  quam  habes  sub  imagine  Aristotelis,  sedere,  quam  in 
istorum  sella  curuli !  " — Ep.  ad  Att.  iv.  10.  . 

Nor  should  we  forget  that  Dryden  drew  inspiration  from  the  "  majes- 
tic face  "  of  Shakspeare ;  and  that  a  portrait  of  Newton  was  the  only 
ornament  of  the  closet  of  Buffon. — Ep.  to  Kneller.  Voyage  a  Mont- 
bart. 

In  the  chamber  of  a  man  of  genius  we 

Write  all  down  : 
Such  and  such  pictures ;  —  there  the  window ; 

the  arms,  figures, 

Why,  such  and  such. 

P.  99,  1.  1. 

Which  gathers  round  the  Wise  of  every  Tongue, 

Quis  tantis  non  gaudeat  et  glorietur  hospitibus,  exclaims  Petrnrch. 
—  Spectare,  etsi  nihil  aliud,  certe  juvat.  —  Homerus  apud  me  mutus, 


AN    EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND.  107 

imb  verb  ego  apud  ilium  surdus  sum.  Gaudeo  tamen  vel  aspectu  solo, 
et  saepe  ilium  amplexus  ac  suspirans  dico  ;  0  magne  vir,  &c. —  Epist. 
Yar.  lib.  20. 

P.  99,  1.  14. 

As  her  fair  self  reflected  seems  to  rise! 
After  line  10,  in  a  former  edition. 

But  hence  away !  yon  rocky  cave  beware ! 

A  sullen  captive  broods  in  silence  there  ! 

There,  tho'  the  dog-star  flame,  condemned  to  dwell 

In  the  dark  centre  of  its  inmost  cell, 

Wild  Winter  ministers  his  dread  control 

To  cool  and  crystallise  the  nectared  bowl. 

His  faded  form  an  awful  grace  retains ; 

Stern  tho'  subdued,  majestic  tho'  in  chains ! 

P.  99,  1.  17. 

These  eyelids  open  to  the  rising  ray, 

Your  bed-chamber,  and  also  your  library,  says  Vitruvius,  should  have 
an  eastern  aspect;  usus  enim  matutinum  postulat  lumen.  Not  so  the 
picture-gallery ;  which  requires  a  north  light,  uti  colores  in  ope,  propter 
constantiam  luminis,  immutata  permaneant  qualitate.  This  disposition 
accords  with  his  plan  of  a  Grecian  house. 

P.  100,  1.  3. 

Like  those  blest  Youths, 

See  the  Legend  of  the  Seven  Sleepers. —  GIBBON,  c.  33. 

P.  100,  1.  12. 
.     with  knowledge  health  ; 

Milton  "was  up  and  stirring,  ere  the  sound  of  any  bell  awaked  men 
to  labour,  or  to  devotion ; "  and  it  is  related  of  two  Students  in  a  suburb 
of  Paris,  who  were  opposite  neighbours,  and  were  called  the  morning- 
star  and  the  evening-star — the  former  appearing  just  as  the  latter 
withdrew  —  that  the  morning-star  continued  to  shine  on,  when  the 
evening-star  was  gone  out  for  ever. 


108  AN    EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND. 

P.  100,  1.  20. 

Catch  the  blest  accents  of  the  wise  and  great. 

Mr.  Pope  delights  in  enumerating  his  illustrious  guests.  Nor  is  this 
an  exclusive  privilege  of  the  Poet.  The  Medici  Palace  at  Florence 
exhibits  a  long  and  imposing  catalogue.  "Semper  hi  parietes  colum- 
naeque  eruditis  vocibus  renosuerunt." 

P.  101,  1.  20. 

Sheds,  like  an  evening-star,  its  ray  serene, 

At  a  Roman  supper  statues  were  sometimes  employed  to  hold  the 
lamps. 

— aurea  sunt  juvenum  simulacra  per  tedes, 
Lampadas  igniferas  manibus  retinentia  dextris. 

LUCR.  ii.  24. 

A  fashion  as  old  as  Homer!  —  Odyss.  vii.  100. 

On  the  proper  degree  and  distribution  of  light  we  may  consult  a 
great  master  of  effect.  II  lume  grande,  ed  alto,  e  non  troppe  potente, 
sara  quello,  che  rendera  le  particole  de'  corpi  molto  grate. —  Tratt. 
della  Pittura  di  LIONARDO  DA  VINCI,  c.  xli. 

Hence  every  artist  requires  a  broad  and  high  light.  Michael  Angelo 
used  to  work  with  a  candle  fixed  in  his  hat. —  Condivi.  Vita  de  Michel- 
agnolo.— Hence  also,  in  a  banquet-scene,  the  most  picturesque  of  all 
poets  has  thrown  his  light  from  the  ceiling. — JEn.  i.  726. 

And  hence  the  "starry  lamp"  of  Milton,  that 

....    from  the  arched  roof 
Pendent  by  subtle  magic,    .... 

yielded  light 

As  from  a  sky. 

P.  101,  1.  30. 

Beyond  the  triumphs  of  a  Loriofs  art. 

At  the  petits  soupe"s  of  Choisy  were  first  introduced  those  admirable 
pieces  of  mechanism,  afterwards  carried  to  perfection  by  Loroit,  the 
Confidente  and  the  Servente ;  a  table  and  a  side-board,  which  descended, 
and  rose  again  covered  with  viands  and  wines.  And  thus  the  most 
luxurious  court  in  Europe,  after  all  its  boasted  refinements,  was  glad  to 
return  at  last,  by  this  singular  contrivance,  to  the  quiet  and  privacy  of 
humble  life.— Vie  Prive"e  de  Louis  XV.  ii.  43. 


AN    EPISTLE    TO    A    FRIEND.  109 

Between  line  36  and  line  37  were  these  lines,  since  omitted  : 

Hail,  sweet  Society  !  in  crowds  unknown, 
Though  the  vain  world  would  claim  thee  for  its  own. 
Still  where  thy  small  and  cheerful  converse  flows, 
Be  mine  to  enter,  ere  the  circle  close. 
When  in  retreat  Fox  lays  his  thunder  by, 
And  Wit  and  Taste  their  mingled  charms^upply ; 
When  SIDDONS,  born  to  melt  and  freeze  the  heart. 
Performs  at  home  her  more  endearing  part ; 
When  he,  who  best  interprets  to  mankind 
The  winged  messengers  from  mind  to  mind, 
Leans  on  his  spade,  and,  playful  as  profound, 
His  genius  spreads  its  evening-sunshine  round, 
Be  mine  to  listen ;  pleased  yet  not  elate, 
Ever  too  modest  or  too  proud  to  rate 
Myself  by  my  companions. 
They  were  written  in  1796. 

P.  102,  1.  3. 

So  thro'  the  vales  of  Loire  the  bee-hives  glide, 

An  allusion  to  the  floating  bee-house,  which  is  seen  in  some  parts  of 
France  and  Piedmont. 

P.  102,  1.  10. 
Caught  thro1  St.  James's  groves  at  blush  of  day; 

After  line  42,  in  the  MS. 

Groves  that  Belinda's  star  illumines  still, 
And  Ancient  Courts  and  faded  splendours  fill. 
See  the  Rape  of  the  Lock.     Canto  V. 

P.  103,  1.  8. 

And,  with  the  swallow,  wings  the  year  away  ! 

It  was  the  boast  of  Lucullus  that  he  changed  his  climate  with  the 
birds  of  passage. 

How  often  must  he  have  felt  the  truth  here  inculcated,  that  the 
master  of  many  houses  had  no  home ! 

10 


JACQUELINE. 


TWAS  Autumn;  thro'  Provence  had  ceased 

The  vintage,  and  the  vintage-feast. 

The  sun  had  set  behind  the  hill, 

The  moon  was  up,  and  all  was  still, 

And  from  the  Convent's  neighbouring  tower 

The  clock  had  tolled  the  midnight-hour, 

When  Jacqueline  came  forth  alone, 

Her  kerchief  o'er  her  tresses  thrown; 

A  guilty  thing  and  full  of  fears, 

Yet  ah,  how  lovely  in  her  tears! 

She  starts,  and  what  has  caught  her  eye? 

What — but  her  shadow  gliding  by? 

She  stops,  she  pants;  with  lips  apart 

She  listens  —  to  her  beating  heart! 

Then,  thro'  the  scanty  orchard  stealing, 

The  clustering  boughs  her  track  concealing, 

She  flies,  nor  casts  a  thought  behind, 

But  gives  her  terrors  to  the  wind ; 

Flies  from  her  home,  the  humble  sphere 

Of  all  her  joys  and  sorrows  here, 

Her  father's  house  of  mountain-stone, 

And  by  a  mountain-vine  o'ergrown. 

At  such  an  hour,  in  such  a  night, 

So  calm,  so  clear,  so  heavenly  bright, 

(110) 


JACQUELINE.  Ill 

Who  would  have  seen,  and  not  confessed 
It  looked  as  all  within  were  blessed  ? 
What  will  not  woman,  when  she  loves  ? 
Yet  lost,  alas!  who  can  restore  her?  — 
She  lifts  the  latch,  the  wicket  moves; 
And  now  the  world  was  all  before  her. 

Up  rose  St.  Pierre,  when  morning  shone; 

—  And  Jacqueline,  his  child,  was  gone ! 

Oh  what  the  maddening  thought  that  came? 

Dishonour  coupled  with  his  name ! 

By  Conde  at  Rocroy  he  stood; 

By  Turenne,  -when  the  Rhine  ran  blood. 

Two  banners  of  Castile  he  gave 

Aloft  in  Notre  Dame  to  wave ; 

Nor  did  thy  cross,  St.  Louis,  rest 

Upon  a  purer,  nobler  breast. 

He  slung  his  old  sword  by  his  side, 

And  snatched  his  staff  and  rushed  to  save: 

Then  sunk  —  and  on  his  threshold  cried, 

"  0  lay  me  in  my  grave ! 

—  Constance !  Claudine !  where  were  ye  then  ? 
But  stand  not  there.     Away  !  away ! 

Thou,  Frederic,  by  thy  father  stay. 
Though  old,  and  now  forgot  of  men, 
Both  must  not  leave  him  in  a  day." 
Then,  and  he  shook  his  hoary  head, 
"Unhappy  in  thy  youth!"  he  said. 
"Call  as  thou  wilt,  thou  call'st  in  vain; 
No  voice  sends  back  thy  name  again. 
To  mourn  is  all  thou  hast  to  do ; 
Thy  play-mate  lost,  and  teacher  too." 


112  JACQUELINE. 

And  who  but  she  could  soothe  the  boy 
Or  turn  his  tears  to  tears  of  joy? 
Long  had  she  kissed  him  as  he  slept, 
Long  o'er  his  pillow  hung  and  wept; 
And,  as  she  passed  her  father's  door, 
She  stood  as  she  would  stir  no  more. 
But  she  is  gone,  and  gone  for  ever ! 
No,  never  shall  they  clasp  her  —  never ! 
They  sit  and  listen  to  their  fears; 
And  he,  who  through  the  breach  had  led 
Over  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
Shakes  if  a  cricket's  cry  he  hears  ! 

Oh !  she  was  good  as  she  was  fair. 
None  —  none  on  earth  above  her! 
As  pure  in  thought  as  angels  are, 
To  know  her  was  to  love  her. 
When  little,  and  her  eyes,  her  voice, 
Her  every  gesture  said,  "rejoice," 
Her  coming  was  a  gladness; 
And,  as  she  grew,  her  modest  grace, 
Her  down-cast  look  'twas  heaven  to  trace, 
When,  shading  with  her  hand  her  face, 
She  half  inclined  to  sadness. 
Her  voice,  whate'er  she  said,  enchanted; 
Like  music  to  the  heart  it  went. 
And  her  dark  eyes  —  how  eloquent! 
Ask  what  they  would,  'twas  granted. 
Her  father  loved  her  as  his  fame; 
— And  Bayard's  self  had  done  the  same ! 

Soon  as  the  sun  the  glittering  pane 
On  the  red  floor  in  diamonds  threw, 
His  songs  she  sung  and  sung  again, 
Till  the  last  light  withdrew. 


JACQUELINE.  113 

But  she  is  dead  to  him,  to  all! 
Her  lute  hangs  silent  on  the  wall; 
And  on  the  stairs,  and  at  the  door 
Her  fairy-step  is  heard  no  more ! 
At  every  meal  an  empty  chair 
Tells  him  that  she  is  not  there ; 
She,  who  would  lead  him  where  he  went, 
Charm  with  her  converse  while  he  leant; 
Or,  hovering,  every  wish  prevent; 
At  eve  light  up  the  chimney-nook, 
Lay  there  his  glass  within  his  book; 
And  that  small  chest  of  curious  mould, 
(Queen  Mab's,  perchance,  in  days  of  old,) 
Tusk  of  elephant  and  gold; 
Which,  when  a  tale  is  long,  dispenses 
Its  fragrant  dust  to  drowsy  senses. 
In  her  who  mourned  not,  when  they  missed  her, 
The  old  a  child,  the  young  a  sister? 
No  more  the  orphan  runs  to  take 
From  her  loved  hand  the  barley-cake. 
No  more  the  matron  in  the  school 
Expects  her  in  the  hour  of  rule, 
To  sit  amid  the  elfin  brood, 
Praising  the  busy  and  the  good. 
The  widow  trims  her  hearth  in  vain. 
She  comes  not  —  nor  will  come  again. 
Not  now,  his  little  lesson  done, 
With  Frederic  blowing  bubbles  in  the  sun ; 
Nor  spinning  by  the  fountain  side, 
(Some  story  of  the  days  of  old, 
Barbe  Bleue  or  Chaperon  Rouge  half-told 
To  him  who  would  not  be  denied;) 
10*  P 


114  JACQUELINE. 

Not  now,  to  while  an  hour  away, 
Gone  to  the  falls  in  Valombre, 
Where  'tis  night  at  noon  of  day ; 
Nor  wandering  up  and  down  the  wood, 
To  all  but  her  a  solitude, 
Where  once  a  wild  deer,  wild  no  more, 
Her  chaplet  on  his  antlers  wore, 
And  at  her  bidding  stood. 

II. 

The  day  was  in  the  golden  west; 

And,  curtained  close  by  leaf  and  flower, 

The  doves  had  cooed  themselves  to  rest 

In  Jacqueline's  deserted  bower; 

The  doves  —  that  still  would  at  her  casement  peck, 

And  in  her  walks  had  ever  fluttered  round 

With  purple  feet  and  shining  neck, 

True  as  the  echo  to  the  sound. 

That  casement,  underneath  the  trees, 

Half  open  to  the  western  breeze, 

Looked  down,  enchanting  Garonnelle, 

Thy  wild  and  mulberry-shaded  dell, 

Round  which  the  Alps  of  Piedmont  rose, 

The  blush  of  sunset  on  their  snows : 

While,  blithe  as  lark  on  summer-morn, 

When  green  and  yellow  waves  the  corn, 

When  harebells  blow  in  every  grove, 

And  thrushes  sing  "  I  love !  I  love !" 

Within  (so  soon  the  early  rain 

Scatters,  and  'tis  fair  again; 

Though  many  a  drop  may  yet  be  seen 

To  tell  us  where  a  cloud  has  been) 


JACQUELINE.  115 

Within  lay  Frederic,  o'er  and  o'er 

Building  castles  on  the  floor, 

And  feigning,  as  they  grew  in  size, 

New  troubles  and  new  dangers; 

With  dimpled  cheeks  and  laughing  eyes, 

As  he  and  Fear  were  strangers. 

St.  Pierre  sat  by,  nor  saw  nor  smiled. 
His  eyes  were  on  his  loved  Montaigne; 
But  every  leaf  was  turned  in  vain. 
Then  in  that  hour  remorse  he  felt, 
And  his  heart  told  him  he  had  dealt 
Unkindly  with  his  child. 
A  father  may  awhile  refuse; 
But  who  can  for  another  choose? 
"When  her  young  blushes  had  revealed 
The  secret  from  herself  concealed, 
Why  promise  what  her  tears  denied, 
That  she  should  be  De  Courcy's  bride? 
— Wouldst  thou,  presumptuous  as  thou  art, 
O'er  Nature  play  the  tyrant's  part, 
And  with  the  hand  compel  the  heart? 
Oh  rather,  rather  hope  to  bind 
The  ocean-wave,  the  mountain- wind ; 
Or  fix  thy  foot  upon  the  ground 
To  stop  the  planet  rolling  round. 

The  light  was  on  his  face,  and  there 
You  might  have  seen  the  passions  driven  — 
Resentment,  Pity,  Hope,  Despair  — 
Like  clouds  across  the  face  of  Heaven. 
Now  he  sighed  heavily;  and  now, 
His  hand  withdrawing  from  his  brow, 
He  shut  the  volume  with  a  frown, 
To  walk  his  troubled  spirit  down: 


116  JACQUELINE. 

— When  (faithful  as  that  dog  of  yore* 
Who  wagged  his  tail  and  could  no  more) 
Manchon,  who  long  had  snuffed  the  ground, 
And  sought  and  sought  but  never  found, 
Leapt  up  and  to  the  casement  flew, 
And  looked  and  barked,  and  vanished  thro*. 
"'Tis  Jacqueline!     'Tis  Jacqueline!" 
Her  little  brother  laughing  cried. 
"I  know  her  by  her  kirtle  green, 
She  comes  along  the  mountain-side; 
Now  turning  by  the  traveller's  seat, — 
Now  resting  in  the  hermit's  cave, — 
Now  kneeling,  where  the  pathways  meet, 
To  the  cross  on  the  stranger's  grave. 
And,  by  the  soldier's  cloak,  I  know 
(Therej  there  along  the  ridge  they  go) 
D'Arcy  so  gentle  and  so  brave ! 
Look  up  —  why  will  you  not?"  he  cries, 
His  rosy  hands  before  his  eyes; 
For  on  that  incense-breathing  eve 
The  sun  shone  out,  as  loth  to  leave. 
"See  —  to  the  rugged  rock  she  clings! 
She  calls,  she  faints,  and  D'Arcy  springs; 
D'Arcy  so  dear  to  us,  to  all ; 
Who,  for  you  told  me  on  your  knee, 
When  in  the  fight  he  saw  you  fall, 
Saved  you  for  Jacqueline  and  me ! " 

And  true  it  was !     And  true  the  tale ! 
When  did  she  sue,  and  not  prevail? 

*  Argus. 


JACQUELINE.  117 

Five  years  before  —  it  was  the  night 
That  on  the  village-green  they  parted, 
The  lilied  banners  streaming  bright 
O'er  maids  and  mothers  broken-hearted; 
The  drum  —  it  drowned  the  last  adieu, 
When  D'Arcy  from  the  crowd  she  drew. 
"One  charge  I  have  and  one  alone, 
Nor  that  refuse  to  take, 
My  father  —  if  not  for  his  own, 
Oh  for  his  daughter's  sake ! " 
Inly  he  vowed — 'twas  all  he  could ; 
And  went  and  sealed  it  with  his  blood. 
Nor  can  ye  wonder.     When  a  child, 
And  in  her  playfulness  she  smiled, 
Up  many  a  ladder-path*  he  guided 
Where  meteor-like  the  chamois  glided, 
Thro'  many  a  misty  grove. 
They  loved — but  under  Friendship's  name; 
And  Reason,  Virtue  fanned  the  flame, 
Till  in  their  houses  discord  came, 
And  'twas  a  crime  to  love. 
Then  what  was  Jacqueline  to  do? 
Her  father's  angry  hours  she  knew, 
And  when  to  soothe,  and  when  persuade; 
And  now  her  path  De  Courcy  crossed, 
Led  by  his  falcon  through  the  glade  — 
He  turned,  beheld,  admired  the  maid; 
And  all  her  little  arts  were  lost! 
De  Courcy,  Lord  of  Argentiere ! 
Thy  poverty,  thy  pride,  St.  Pierre, 
Thy  thirst  for  vengeance  sought  the  snare. 

*  Called  in  the  language  of  the  country  Pas-de-F Echelle. 


118  JACQUELINE. 

The  day  was  named,  the  guests  invited; 
The  bride-groom,  at  the  gate,  alighted; 
When  up  the  windings  of  the  dell, 
A  pastoral  pipe  was  heard  to  swell, 
And  lo,  an  humble  Piedmontese, 
Whose  music  might  a  lady  please, 
This  message  thro'  the  lattice  bore, 
(She  listened,  and  her  trembling  frame 
Told  her  at  once  from  whom  it  came) 
"Oh  let  us  fly  —  to  part  no  more!" 

III. 

That  morn  ('twas  in  Ste  Julienne's  cell, 

As  at  Ste  Julienne's  sacred  well 

Their  dream  of  love  began), 

That  morn,  ere  many  a  star  was  set, 

Their  hands  had  on  the  altar  met 

Before  the  holy  man. 

—  And  now  the  village  gleams  at  last; 

The  woods,  the  golden  meadows  passed, 

Where,  when  Toulouse,  thy  splendour  shone 

The  troubadour  would  journey  on 

Transported  —  or,  from  grove  to  grove, 

Framing  some  roundelay  of  love, 

Wander  till  the  day  was  gone. 

"  All  will  be  well,  my  Jacqueline ! 

Oh  tremble  not — but  trust  in  me. 

The  good  are  better  made  by  ill, 

As  odours  crushed  are  sweeter  still; 

And  gloomy  as  thy  past  has  been, 

Bright  shall  thy  future  be!" 


JACQUELINE.  119 

So  saying,  through  the  fragrant  shade 

Gently  along  he  led  the  maid, 

While  Manchon  round  and  round  her  played, 

And,  as  that  silent  glen  they  leave, 

Where  hy  the  spring  the  pitchers  stand, 

Where  glow-worms  light  their  lamps  at  eve, 

And  fairies  dance  —  in  fairy -land, 

(When  Lubin  calls,  and  Blanche  steals  round, 

Her  finger  on  her  lip,  to  see ; 

And  many  an  acorn  cup  is  found 

Under  the  greenwood  tree) 

From  every  cot  above,  below, 

They  gather  as  they  go  — 

Sabot,  and  coif,  and  collerette, 

The  housewife's  prayer,  the  grandam's  blessing ! 

Girls  that  adjust  their  locks  of  jet, 

And  look  and  look  and  linger  yet, 

The  lovely  bride  caressing; 

Babes  that  had  learnt  to  lisp  her  name, 

And  heroes  he  had  led  to  fame. 

But  what  felt  D'Arcy,  when  at  length 
Her  father's  gate  was  open  flung? 
Ah,  then  he  found  a  giant's  strength; 
For  round  him,  as  for  life,  she  clung ! 
And  when,  her  fit  of  weeping  o'er, 
Onward  they  moved  a  little  space, 
And  saw  an  old  man  sitting  at  the  door, 
Saw  his  wan  cheek,  and  sunken  eye 
That  seemed  to  gaze  on  vacancy. 
Then,  at  the  sight  of  that  beloved  face, 
At  once  to  fall  upon  his  neck  she  flew; 
But  —  not  encouraged  —  back  she  drew. 


120  JACQUELINE. 

And  trembling  stood  in  dread  suspense, 

Her  tears  her  only  eloquence ! 

All,  all  —  the  while  —  an  awful  distance  keeping, 

Save  D'Arcy,  who  nor  speaks  nor  stirs ; 

And  one,  his  little  hand  in  hers, 

Who  weeps  to  see  his  sister  weeping. 

Then  Jacqueline  the  silence  broke. 
She  clasped  her  father's  knees  and  spoke, 
Her  brother  kneeling  too ; 
While  D'Arcy  as  before  looked  on, 
Tho'  from  his  manly  cheek  was  gone 
Its  natural  hue. 

"His  praises  from  your  lips  I  heard, 
Till  my  fond  heart  was  won; 
And,  if  in  aught  his  Sire  has  erred, 
Oh  turn  not  from  the  Son!  — 
She,  whom  in  joy,  in  grief  you  nursed; 
Who  climbed  and  called  you  father  first, 
By  that  dear  name  conjures  — 
On  her  you  thought  —  but  to  be  kind! 
When  looked  you  up,  but  you  inclined? 
These  things  for  ever  in  her  mind, 
Oh  are  they  gone  from  yours? 
Two  kneeling  at  your  feet  behold; 
One  —  one  how  young; — nor  yet  the  other  old. 
Oh  spurn  them  not  —  nor  look  so  cold — 
If  Jacqueline  be  cast  away, 
Her  bridal  be  her  dying  day. 
—  Well,  well  might  she  believe  in  you! 
She  listened,  and  she  found  it  true." 

He  shook  his  aged  locks  of  snow; 
And  twice  he  turned,  and  rose  to  go. 


JACQUELINE.  121 

She  hung;  and  was  St.  Pierre  to  blame, 

If  tears  and  smiles  at  length  together  came? 

"Oh  no — begone,  I'll  hear  no  more." 

But,  as  he  spoke,  his  voice  relented. 

"That  very  look  thy  mother  wore 

When  she  implored,  and  old  Le  Roc  consented. 

True,  I  have  done  as  well  as  suffered  wrong, 

Yet  still  I  love  him  as  my  own ! 

—  Nor  canst  thou,  D'Arcy,  feel  resentment  long; 

For  she  herself  shall  plead,  and  I  atone. 

Henceforth,"  he  paused  awhile,  unmanned, 

For  D'Arcy's  tears  bedewed  his  hand ; 

"Let  each  meet  each  as  friend  to  friend, 

All  things  by  all  forgot,  forgiven. 

And  that  dear  Saint — may  she  once  more  descend 

To  make  our  home  a  heaven !  — 

But  now,  in  my  hands,  your's  with  her's  unite. 

A  father's  blessing  on  your  heads  alight ! 

.     Nor  let  the  least  be  sent  away. 
All  hearts  shall  sing  '  Adieu  to  sorrow ! ' 
St.  Pierre  has  found  his  child  to-day ; 
And  old  and  young  shall  dance  to-morrow." 


Had  Louis*  then  before  the  gate  dismounted, 
Lost  in  the  chase  at  set  of  sun; 
Like  Henry  when  he  heard  recounted  f 
The  generous  deeds  himself  had  done, 

*  Louis  the  Fourteenth. 

f  Alluding  to  a  popular  story  related  of  Henry  the  Fourth  of  France ; 
similar  to  ours  of  "  The  King  and  Miller  of  Mansfield." 
11  Q 


122  JACQUELINE. 

(What  time  the  miller's  maid  Colette 

Sung,  while  he  supped,  her  chansonnette) 

Then  —  when  St.  Pierre  addressed  his  village-train, 

Then  had  the  monarch  with  a  sigh  confessed 

A  joy  by  him  unsought  and  unpossessed, 

— Without  it  what  are  all  the  rest?  — 

To  love,  and  to  be  loved  again. 


ODE  TO  SUPERSTITION.* 


1. 1. 

HENCE,  to  the  realms  of  Night,  dire  Demon,  hence ! 
Thy  chain  of  adamant  can  bind 
That  little  world,  the  human  mind, 

And  sink  its  noblest  powers  to  impotence. 
Wake  the  lion's  loudest  roar, 
Clot  his  shaggy  mane  with  gore, 
With  flashing  fury  bid  his  eye-balls  shine; 
Meek  is  his  savage,  sullen  soul,  to  thine ! 
Thy  touch,  thy  deadening  touch  has  steeled  the  breast, 
Whence,  thro'  her  April-shower,  soft  Pity  smiled; 
Has  closed  the  heart  each  godlike  virtue  blessed, 
To  all  the  silent  pleadings  of  his  child,  f 
At  thy  command  he  plants  the  dagger  deep, 

At  thy  command  exults,  tho'  Nature  bids  him  weep ! 

I.  2. 

When,  with  a  frown  that  froze  the  peopled  earth,! 
Thou  dartedst  thy  huge  head  from  high, 
Night  waved  her  banners  o'er  the  sky, 

And,  brooding,  gave  her  shapeless  shadows  birth. 

*  Written  in  1785.  f  The  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia. 

J  Lucretius,  I.  68. 

(123) 


124  ODE    TO    SUPEBSTITION. 

Rocking  on  the  billowy  air, 
Ha !  what  withering  phantoms  glare ! 
As  blows  the  blast  with  many  a  sudden  swell, 
At  each  dead  pause,  what  shrill-toned  voices  yell ! 
The  sheeted  spectre,  rising  from  the  tomb, 
Points  to  the  murderer's  stab,  and  shudders  by; 
In  every  grove  is  felt  a  heavier  gloom, 
That  veils  its  genius  from  the  vulgar  eye  : 
The  spirit  of  the  water  rides  the  storm, 
And,  thro'  the  mist,  reveals  the  terrors  of  his  form. 

I.  3. 

O'er  solid  seas,  where  Winter  reigns, 
And  holds  each  mountain-wave  in  chains, 
The  fur-clad  savage,  ere  he  guides  his  deer 
By  glistering  star-light  thro'  the  snow, 
Breathes  softly  in  her  wondering  ear 
Each  potent  spell  thou  bad'st  him  know. 
By  thee  inspired,  on  India's  sands, 
Full  in  the  sun  the  Bramin  stands ; 
And,  while  the  panting  tigress  hies 
To  quench  her  fever  in  the  stream, 
His  spirit  laughs  in  agonies, 
Smit  by  the  scorching  of  the  noontide  beam. 
Mark  who  mounts  the  sacred  pyre,* 
Blooming  in  her  bridal  vest: 
She  hurls  the  torch !  she  fans  the  fire ! 

To  die  is  to  be  blest: 
She  clasps  her  lord  to  part  no  more, 
And,  sighing,  sinks !  but  sinks  to  soar. 

*  The  funeral  rite  of  the  Hindoos. 


ODE    TO    SUPERSTITION.  125 

O'ershadowing  Scotia's  desert  coast, 

The  Sisters  sail  in  dusky  state,* 

And,  wrapt  in  clouds,  in  tempests  tost, 

Weave  the  airy  web  of  Fate ; 
While  the  lone  shepherd,  near  the  shipless  main,f 
Sees  o'er  her  hills  advance  the  long-drawn  funeral  train. 

II.  1. 

Thou  spak'st,  and  lo !  a  new  creation  glowed. 
Each  unhewn  mass  of  living  stone 
Was  clad  in  horrors  not  its  own, 
And  at  its  base  the  trembling  nations  bowed. 
Giant  Error,  darkly  grand, 
Grasped  the  globe  with  iron  hand. 

Circled  with  seats  of  bliss,  the  Lord  of  Light 

Saw  prostrate  worlds  adore  his  golden  height. 

The  statue,  waking  with  immortal  powers,! 

Springs  from  its  parent  earth,  and  shakes  the  spheres ; 

The  indignant  pyramid  sublimely  towers, 

And  braves  the  efforts  of  a  host  of  years. 

Sweet  Music  breathes  her  soul  into  the  wind; 
And  bright-eyed  Painting  stamps  the  image  of  the  mind. 

II.  2. 
Round  the  rude  ark  old  Egypt's  sorcerers  rise ! 

A  timbrelled  anthem  swells  the  gale, 

And  bids  the  God  of  Thunders  hail;§ 
With  lowings  loud  the  captive  God  replies. 

Clouds  of  incense  woo  thy  smile, 

Scaly  monarch  of  the  Nile  !  || 

*  The  Fates  of  the  Northern  Mythology.  See  MALLET'S  Antiquities 
f  An  allusion  to  the  Second  Sight.  J-.<En.  II.  172,  &c. 

\  The  bull,  Apis.  ||  The  Crocodile. 

11* 


126  ODE    TO    SUPERSTITION. 

But  ah  !  what  myriads  claim  the  bended  knee  ?  * 
Go,  count  the  busy  drops  that  swell  the  sea. 
Proud  land !  what  eye  can  trace  thy  mystic  lore, 
Locked  up  in  characters  as  dark  as  night  ?f 
What  eye  those  long,  long  labyrinths  dare  explore, £ 
To  which  the  parted  soul  oft  wings  her  flight; 
Again  to  visit  her  cold  cell  of  clay, 
Charmed  with  perennial  sweets,  and  smiling  at  decay  ? 

II.  3. 

On  yon  hoar  summit,  mildly  bright  § 
With  purple  ether's  liquid  light, 
High  o'er  the  world,  the  white-robed  Magi  gaze 
On  dazzling  bursts  of  heavenly  fire ; 
Start  at  each  blue,  portentous  blaze, 
Each  flame  that  flits  with  adverse  spire. 
But  say,  what  sounds  my  ear  invade 
From  Delphi's  venerable  shade? 
The  temple  rocks,  the  laurel  waves ! 
."The  God!  the  God!"  the  Sibyl  cries. || 
Her  figure  swells !  she  foams,  she  raves ! 
Her  figure  swells  to  more  than  mortal  size! 
Streams  of  rapture  roll  along, 
Silver  notes  ascend  the  skies : 
Wake,  Echo,  wake  and  catch  the  song, 
Oh  catch  it,  ere  it  dies! 

*  According  to  an  ancient  proverb,  it  was  less  difficult  in  Egypt 
to  find  a  god  than  a  man. 

f  The  Hieroglyphics.  +  The  Catacombs. 

\  "The  Persians,"  says  Herodotus,  "have  no  temples,  altars,  or 
statues.  They  sacrifice  on  the  tops  of  the  highest  mountains."  I.  181. 

|  JEn.  VI.  46,  &c. 


ODE    TO    SUPERSTITION.  127 

The  Sibyl  speaks,  the  dream  is  o'er, 
The  holy  harpings  charm  no  more. 
In  vain  she  checks  the  God's  control; 
His  madding  spirit  fills  her  frame, 
And  moulds  the  features  of  her  soul, 

Breathing  a  prophetic  flame. 
The  cavern  frowns ;  its  hundred  mouths  unclose ! 
And,  in  the  thunder's  voice,  the  fate  of  empire  flows! 

III.  1. 

Mona,  thy  druid-rites  awake  the  dead  ! 
Rites  thy  brown  oaks  would  never  dare 

Even  whisper  to  the  idle  air; 
Rites  that  have  chained  old  Ocean  on  his  bed. 
Shivered  by  thy  piercing  glance, 
Pointless  falls  the  hero's  lance. 
Thy  magic  bids  the  imperial  eagle  fly,* 
And  blasts  the  laureate  wreath  of  victory. 
Hark,  the  bard's  soul  inspires  the  vocal  string  ! 
At  every  pause  dread  Silence  hovers  o'er: 
While  murky  Night  sails  round  on  raven-wing, 
Deepening  the  tempest's  howl,  the  torrent's  roar; 
Chased  by  the  Morn  from  Snowdon's  awful  brow, 
Where  late  she  sate  and  scowled  on  the  black  wave  below. 

III.  2. 
Lo,  steel-clad  War  his  gorgeous  standard  rears! 

The  red-cross  squadrons  madly  rage,f 

And  mow  thro'  infancy  and  age; 
Then  kiss  the  sacred  dust  and  melt  in  tears. 

*  See  Tacitus,  1.  xiv.  c.  29. 

|  This  remarkable  event  happened  at  the  siege  and  sack  of  Jerusalem 
in  the  last  year  of  the  eleventh  century.     Matth.  Paris,  IV.  2. 


128  ODE    TO    SUPERSTITION. 

Veiling  from  the  eye  of  day, 

Penance  dreams  her  life  away : 
In  cloistered  solitude  she  sits  and  sighs, 
While  from  each  shrine  still,  small  responses  rise. 
Hear  with  what  heart-felt  beat,  the  midnight  bell 
Swings  its  slow  summons  thro'  the  hollow  pile! 
The  weak,  wan  votarist  leaves  her  twilight-cell, 
To  walk,  with  taper  dim,  the  winding  aisle; 
With  choral  chantings  vainly  to  aspire 
Beyond  this  nether  sphere,  on  Rapture's  wing  of  fire. 

III.  3. 

Lord  of  each  pang  the  nerves  can  feel, 
Hence  with  the  rack  and  reeking  wheel. 
Faith  lifts  the  soul  above  this  little  ball ! 
While  gleams  of  glory  open  round, 
And  circling  choirs  of  angels  call, 
Canst  thou,  with  all  thy  terrors  crowned, 
Hope  to  obscure  that  latent  spark, 
Destined  to  shine  when  suns  are  dark? 
Thy  triumphs  cease !  thro'  every  land, 
Hark!  Truth  proclaims,  thy  triumphs  cease! 
Her  heavenly  form,  with  glowing  hand, 
Benignly  points  to  piety  and  peace. 
Flushed  with  youth,  her  looks  impart 

Each  fine  feeling  as  it  flows; 
Her  voice  the  echo  of  a  heart 

Pure  as  the  mountain  snows  : 
Celestial  transports  round  her  play, 
And  softly,  sweetly  die  away. 


ODE    TO    SUPERSTITION.  129 

She  smiles !  and  where  is  now  the  cloud 
That  blackened  o'er  thy  baleful  reign? 
Grim  darkness  furls  his  leaden  shroud, 

Shrinking  from  her  glance  in  vain. 
Her  touch  unlocks  the  day-spring  from  above, 
And  lo  !  it  visits  man  with  beams  of  light  and  love. 


WRITTEN    TO    BE    SPOKEN    BY 
MES.   SIDDONS .* 


YES,  'tis  the  pulse  of  life  !  my  fears  were  vain ; 
I  wake,  I  breathe,  and  am  myself  again. 
Still  in  this  nether  world;  no  seraph  yet! 
Nor  walks  my  spirit  when  the  sun  is  set, 
With  troubled  step  to  haunt  the  fatal  board, 
Where  I  died  last  —  by  poison  or  the  sword; 
Blanching  each  honest  cheek  with  deeds  of  night, 
Done  here  so  oft  by  dim  and  doubtful  light. 

To  drop  all  metaphor,  that  little  bell 
Called  back  reality,  and  broke  the  spell. 
No  heroine  claims  your  tears  with  tragic  tone ; 
A  very  woman  —  scarce  restrains  her  own! 
Can  she,  with  fiction  charm  the  cheated  mind, 
When  to  be  grateful  is  the  part  assigned? 
Ah,  no!  she  scorns  the  trappings  of  her  Art; 
No  theme  but  truth,  no  prompter  but  the  heart! 

But,  Ladies,  say,  must  I  alone  unmask? 
Is  here  no  other  actress,  let  me  ask. 
Believe  me,  those,  who  best  the  heart  dissect, 
Know  every  Woman  studies  stage-effect. 
She  moulds  her  manners  to  the  part  she  fills, 
As  Instinct  teaches,  or  as  Humour  wills ; 

*  After  a  Tragedy,  performed  for  her  benefit,  at  the  Theatre  Royal 
in  Drury-lane,  April  27,  1795. 

(130) 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  131 

And,  as  the  grave  or  gay  her  talent  calls, 
Acts  in  the  drama,  till  the  curtain  falls. 

First,  how  her  little  breast  with  triumph  swells, 
When  the  red  coral  rings  its  golden  bells  ! 
To  play  in  pantomime  is  then  the  rage, 
Along  the  carpet's  many-coloured  stage ; 
Or  lisp  her  merry  thoughts  with  loud  endeavour, 
Now  here,  now  there,  —  in  noise  and  mischief  ever! 

A  school-girl  "next,  she  curls  her  hair  in  papers, 
And  mimics  father's  gout  and  mother's  vapours : 
Discards  her  doll,  bribes  Betty  for  romances; 
Playful  at  church,  and  serious  when  she  dances; 
Tramples  alike  on  customs  and  on  toes, 
And  whispers  all  she  hears  to  all  she  knows; 
Terror  of  caps,  and  wigs,  and  sober  notions ! 
A  romp !  that  longest  of  perpetual  motions ! 
—  Till  tamed  and  tortured  into  foreign  graces, 
She  sports  her  lovely  face  at  public  places : 
And  with  blue,  laughing  eyes,  behind  her  fan, 
First  acts  her  part  with  that  great  actor,  MAN. 

Too  soon  a  flirt,  approach  her  and  she  flies  ! 
Frowns  when  pursued,  and,  when  entreated,  sighs ! 
Plays  with  unhappy  men  as  cats  with  mice ; 
Till  fading  beauty  hints  the  late  advice. 
Her  prudence  dictates  what  her  pride  disdains, 
And  now  she  sues  to  slaves  herself  had  chained ! 

Then  comes  that  good  old  character,  a  Wife, 
With  all  the  dear,  distracting  cares  of  life ; 
A  thousand  cards  a  day  at  doors  to  leave, 
And,  in  return,  a  thousand  cards  receive; 
Rouge  high,  play  deep,  to  lead  the  ton  aspire, 
With  nightly  blaze  set  PORTLAND-PLACE  on  fire ; 


132  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Snatch  half  a  glimpse  at  Concert,  Opera,  Ball, 
A  meteor,  traced  by  none,  tho'  seen  by  all; 
And,  \vhen  her  shattered  nerves  forbid  to  roam, 
In  very  spleen  —  rehearse  the  girls  at  home. 

Last  the  grey  Dowager,  in  ancient  flounces, 
With  snuff  and  spectacles  the  age  denounces; 
Boasts  how  the  Sires  of  this  degenerate  Isle 
Knelt  for  a  look,  and  duelled  for  a  smile. 
The  scourge  and  ridicule  of  Goth  and  Vandal, 
Her  tea  she  sweetens,  as  she  sips,  with  scandal; 
With  modern  Belles  eternal  warfare  wages, 
Like  her  own  birds  that  clamour  from  their  cages ; 
And  shuffles  round  to  bear  her  tale  to  all, 
Like  some  old  Ruin,  "nodding  to  its  fall!" 

Thus  WOMAN  makes  her  entrance  and  her  exit; 
Not  least  an  actress  when  she  least  suspects  it. 
Yet  Nature  oft  peeps  out  and  mars  the  plot, 
Each  lesson  lost,  each  poor  pretence  forgot; 
Full  oft,  with  energy  that  scorns  control, 
At  once  lights  up  the  features  of  the  soul ; 
Unlocks  each  thought  chained  down  by  coward  Art, 
And  to  full  day  the  latent  passions  start! 
—  And  she,  whose  first,  best  wish  is  your  applause, 
Herself  exemplifies  the  truth  she  draws. 
Born  on  the  stage  —  thro'  every  shifting  scene, 
Obscure  or  bright,  tempestuous  or  serene, 
Still  has  your  smile  her  trembling  spirit  fired ! 
And  can  she  act,  with  thoughts  like  these  inspired? 
Thus  from  her  mind  all  artifice  she  flings, 
All  skill,  all  practice,  now  unmeaning  things  ! 
To  you,  unchecked,  each  genuine  feeling  flows ; 
For  all  that  life  endears  —  to  you  she  owes. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  133 

ON  ...  ASLEEP. 

SLEEP  on,  and  dream  of  Heaven  awhile. 
Tho'  shut  so  close  thy  laughing  eyes, 
Thy  rosy  lips  still  wear  a  smile, 
And  move,  and  breathe  delicious  sighs !  — 

Ah,  now  soft  blushes  tinge  her  cheeks, 
And  mantle  o'er  her  neck  of  snow. 
Ah,  now  she  murmurs,  now  she  speaks 
What  most  I  wish  —  and  fear  to  know. 

She  starts,  she  trembles,  and  she  weeps ! 
Her  fair  hands  folded  on  her  breast. 
— And  now,  how  like  a  saint  she  sleeps ! 
A  seraph  in  the  realms  of  rest ! 

Sleep  on  secure !     Above  control, 
Thy  thoughts  belong  to  Heaven  and  thee! 
And  may  the  secret  of  thy  soul 
Remain  within  its  sanctuary ! 


FROM  A  GREEK  EPIGRAM. 

WHILE  on  the  cliff  with  calm  delight  she  kneels, 
And  the  blue  vales  a  thousand  joys  recall, 
See,  to  the  last,  last  verge  her  infant  steals ! 
0  fly — yet  stir  not,  speak  not,  lest  it  fall. 

Far  better  taught,  she  lays  her  bosom  bare, 
And  the  fond  boy  springs  back  to  nestle  there. 
12 


134  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

FROM  EURIPIDES. 

THERE  is  a  streamlet  issuing  from  a  rock. 

The  village-girls  singing  wild  madrigals, 

Dip  their  white  vestments  in  its  waters  clear, 

And  hang  them  to  the  sun.     There  first  I  saw  her ; 

There  on  that  day.     Her  dark  and  eloquent  eyes 

'Twas  heaven  to  look  upon;  and  her  sweet  voice 

As  tuneable  as  harp  of  many  strings, 

At  once  spoke  joy  and  sadness  to  my  soul ! 


Dear  is  that  valley  to  the  murmuring  bees ; 
And  all,  who  know  it,  come  and  come  again. 
The  small  birds  build  there ;  and,  at  summer-noon, 
Oft  have  I  heard  a  child,  gay  among  flowers, 
As  in  the  shining  grass  she  sate  concealed, 
Sing  to  herself. 


FROM  AN  ITALIAN  SONNET. 

LOVE,  under  Friendship's  vesture  white, 
Laughs,  his  little  limbs  concealing; 
And  oft  in  sport,  and  oft  in  spite, 
Like  pity  meets  the  dazzled  sight, 
Smiles  thro'  his  tears  revealing. 

But  now  as  Rage  the  God  appears ! 
He  frowns,  and  tempests  shake  his  frame ! 
Frowning  or  smiling,  or  in  tears, 
'Tis  Love  ;  and  Love  is  still  the  same. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  135 

TO 

THE  YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER  OF  LADY  *  * 

AH  !  why  -with  tell-tale  tongue  reveal 
What  most  her  blushes  would  conceal?* 
Why  lift  that  modest  veil  to  trace 
The  seraph-sweetness  of  her  face  ? 
Some  fairer,  better  sport  prefer; 
And  feel  for  us,  if  not  for  her. 

For  this  presumption,  soon  or  late, 
Know  thine  shall  be  a  kindred  fate. 
Another  shall  in  vengeance  rise  — 
Sing  Harriet's  cheeks,  and  Harriet's  eyes; 
And  echoing  back  her  wood-notes  wild, 
—  Trace  all  the  mother  in  the  child! 


WRITTEN  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

1786. 

WHILE  through  the  broken  pane  the  tempest  sighs, 
And  my  step  falters  on  the  faithless  floor, 
Shades  of  departed  joys  around  me  rise, 
With  many  a  face  that  smiles  on  me  no  more; 
Wi:h  many  a  voice  that  thrills  of  transport  gave, 
Now  silent  as  the  grass  that  tufts  their  grave! 

*  Alluding  to  some  verses  which  she  had  written  on  an  elder  sister 


136  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

—  Say,  -when,  to  kindle  soft  delight, 
That  hand  has  chanced  with  mine  to  meet, 
How  could  its  "thrilling  touch  excite 
A  sigh  so  short,  and  yet  so  sweet? 

0  say  —  but  no,  it  must  not  be. 
Adieu !     A  long,  a  long  adieu  ! 
— Yet  still,  methinks,  you  frown  on  me; 
Or  never  could  I  fly  from  you. 


THE  SAILOR. 

THE  Sailor  sighs  as  sinks  his  native  shore, 
As  all  its  lessening  turrets  bluely  fade; 
He  climbs  the  mast  to  feast  his  eye  once  more, 
And  busy  fancy  fondly  lends  her  aid. 

Ah!  now,  each  dear,  domestic  scene  he  knew, 
Recalled  and  cherished  in  a  foreign  clime, 
Charms  with  the  magic  of  a  moonlight  view; 
Its  colours  mellowed,  not  impaired,  by  time. 

True  as  the  needle,  homeward  points  his  heart, 
Thro'  all  the  horrors  of  the  stormy  main; 
This,  the  last  wish  that  would  with  life  depart, 
To  meet  the  smile  of  her  he  loves  again. 

When  Morn  first  faintly  draws  her  silver  line, 
Or  Eve's  grey  cloud  descends  to  drink  the  wave ; 
When  sea  and  sky  in  midnight-darkness  join, 
Still,  still  he  sees  the  parting  look  she  gave. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  137 

Her  gentle  spirit,  lightly  hovering  o'er, 
Attends  his  little  bark  from  pole  to  pole; 
And,  when  the  beating  billows  round  him  roar, 
Whispers  sweet  hope  to  soothe  his  troubled  soul. 

Carved  is  her  name  in  many  a  spicy  grove, 
In  many  a  plantain-forest  waving  wide; 
Where  dusky  youths  in  painted  plumage  rove, 
And  giant  palms  o'er-arch  the  golden  tide. 

But  lo,  at  last  he  comes  with  crowded  sail ! 
Lo,  o'er  the  cliff  what  eager  figures  bend ! 
And  hark,  what  mingled  murmurs  swell  the  gale  ! 
In  each  he  hears  the  welcome  of  a  friend. 

—  'Tis  she,  'tis  she  herself!  she  waves  her  hand! 
Soon  is  the  anchor  cast,  the  canvass  furled; 
Soon  thro'  the  whitening  surge  he  springs  to  land, 
And  clasps  the  maid  he  singled  from  the  world. 


TO  AN  OLD  OAK.* 

TRUNK  of  a  Giant  now  no  more ! 
Once  did  thy  limbs  to  heaven  aspire; 
Once,  by  a  track  untried  before, 
Strike  as  resolving  to  explore 
Realms  of  infernal  fire.* 

Round  thee,  alas,  no  shadows  move! 
From  thee  no  sacred  murmurs  breathe! 

*  Radice  in  Tartara  tendit.  —  VIRQ. 

12*  s 


138  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Yet  within  thee,  thyself  a  grove, 
Once  did  the  eagle  scream  above, 
And  the  wolf  howl  beneath. 

There  once  the  steel-clad  knight  reclined, 
His  sable  plumage  tempest-tossed ; 
And,  as  the  death-bell  smote  the  wind, 
From  towers  long  fled  by  human  kind, 
His  brow  the  hero  crossed! 

Then  Culture  came,  and  days  serene; 
And  village-sports,  and  garlands  gay. 
Full  many  a  pathway  crossed  the  green; 
And  maids  and  shepherd-youths  were  seen 
To  celebrate  the  May. 

Father  of  many  a  forest  deep, 
Whence  many  a  navy  thunder-fraught ! 
Erst  in  thy  acorn-cells  asleep, 
Soon  destined  o'er  the  world  to  sweep, 
Opening  new  spheres  of  thought ! 

Wont  in  the  night  of  woods  to  dwell, 
The  holy  Druid  saw  thee  rise ; 
And,  planting  there  the  guardian-spell, 
Sung  forth,  the  dreadful  pomp  to  swell 
Of  human  sacrifice ! 

Thy  singed  top  and  branches  bare 
Now  straggle  in  the  evening-sky; 
And  the  wan  moon  wheels  round  to  glare 
On  the  long  corse  that  shivers  there 
Of  him  who  came  to  die  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  139 


TO  TWO  SISTERS.* 

WELL  may  you  sit  within,  and,  fond  of  grief, 
Look  in  each  other's  face,  and  melt  in  tears; 
Well  may  you  shun  all  counsel,  all  relief — 
Oh  she  was  great  in  mind,  tho'  young  in  years ! 

Changed  is  that  lovely  countenance,  which  shed 
Light  when  she  spoke ;  and  kindled  sweet  surprise, 
As  o'er  her  frame  each  warm  emotion  spread, 
Played  round  her  lips,  and  sparkled  in  her  eyes. 

Those  lips  so  pure,  that  moved  but  to  persuade, 
Still  to  the  last  enlivened  and  endeared; 
Those  eyes  at  once  her  secret  soul  conveyed, 
And  ever  beamed  delight  when  you  appeared. 

Yet  has  she  fled  the  life  of  bliss  below, 
That  youthful  Hope  in  bright  perspective  drew? 
False  were  the  tints !  false  as  the  feverish  glow 
That  o'er  her  burning  cheek  Distemper  threw! 

And  now  in  joy  she  dwells,  in  glory  moves ! 
(Glory  and  joy  reserved  for  you  to  share ;) 
Far,Jfar  more  blest  in  blessing  those  she  loves, 
Than  they,  alas !  unconscious  of  her  care. 

*  On  the  death  of  a  younger  sister. 


140  MISCELLANEOUS     POEMS. 


ON  A  TEAR. 

OH  !  that  the  Chemist's  magic  art 
Could  crystallise  this  sacred  treasure ! 
Long  should  it  glitter  near  my  heart, 
A  secret  source  of  pensive  pleasure. 

The  little  brilliant,  ere  it  fell, 
Its  lustre  caught  from  CHLOE'S  eye; 
Then,  trembling,  left  its  coral  cell  — 
The  spring  of  Sensibility ! 

Sweet  drop  of  pure  and  pearly  light ! 
In  thee  the  rays  of  Virtue  shine; 
More  calmly  clear,  more  mildly  bright,. 
Than  any  gem  that  gilds  the  mine. 

Benign  restorer  of  the  soul ! 
Who  ever  fly'st  to  bring  relief, 
When  first  we  feel  the  rude  control 
Of  Love  or  Pity,  Joy  or  Grief. 

The  sage's  and  the  poet's  theme, 
In  every  clime,  in  every  age ; 
Thou  charm' st  in  Fancy's  idle  dream, 
In  Reason's  philosophic  page. 

That  very  law*  which  moulds  a  tear, 
And  bids  it  trickle  from  its  source, 
That  law  preserves  the  earth  a  sphere, 
And  guides  the  planets  in  their  course. 

*  The  law  of  grayitation. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  141 

TO 

A  VOICE  THAT  HAD  BEEN  LOST. 

Vane,  quid  affectas  faciem  mihi  ponere,  pictor  ? 

Aeris  et  linguae  sum  filia ; 

Et,  si  vis  similem  pingere,  pinge  sonum. — Ausoxus. 

ONCE  more,  Enchantress  of  the  soul, 
Once  more  we  hail  thy  soft  control. 
— Yet  whither,  whither  didst  thou  fly? 
To  what  bright  region  of  the  sky  ? 
Say,  in  what  distant  star  to  dwell? 
(Of  other  worlds  thou  seem'st  to  tell) 
Or  trembling,  fluttering  here  below, 
Resolved  and  unresolved  to  go, 
In  secret  didst  thou  still  impart 
Thy  raptures  to  the  pure  in  heart? 

Perhaps  to  many  a  desert  shore, 
Thee,  in  his  rage,  the  Tempest  bore ; 
Thy  broken  murmurs  swept  along, 
Mid  Echoes  yet  untuned  by  song; 
Arrested  in  the  realms  of  Frost, 
Or  in  the  wilds  of  Ether  lost. 

Far  happier  thou !  'twas  thine  to  soar, 
Careering  on  the  winged  wind. 
Thy  triumphs  who  shall  dare  explore? 
Suns  and  their  systems  left  behind. 
No  tract  of  space,  no  distant  star, 
No  shock  of  elements  at  war, 
Did  thee  detain.     Thy  wing  of  fire 
Bore  thee  amid  the  Cherub-choir; 


142  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

And  there  awhile  to  thee  'twas  given 
Once  more  that  Voice*  beloved  to  join, 
Which  taught  thee  first  a  flight  divine, 
And  nursed  thy  infant  years  with  many  a  strain 
from  Heaven! 


THE  BOY  OF  EGREMOND. 

1812. 

"SAY  what  remains  when  Hope  is  fled?" 
She  answered,  "Endless  weeping!" 
For  in  the  herdsman's  eye  she  read 
Who  in  his  shroud  lay  sleeping. 

At  Embsay  rung  the  matin-bell, 
The  stag  was  roused  on  Barden-fell; 
The  mingled  sounds  were  swelling,  dying, 
And  down  the  Wharfe  a  hern  was  flying; 
When  near  the  cabin  in  the  wood, 
In  tartan  clad  and  forest-green, 
With  hound  in  leash  and  hawk  in  hood, 
The  Boy  of  Egremond  was  seen.f 

*  Mrs.  Sheridan's. 

f  In  the  twelfth  century,  William  Fitz-Duncan  laid  waste  the  valleys 
of  Craven  with  fire  and  sword ;  and  was  afterwards  established  there  by 
his  uncle,  David  King  of  Scotland. 

He  was  the  last  of  the  race ;  his  son,  commonly  called  the  Boy  of 
Egremond,  dying  before  him  in  the  manner  here  related;  when  a 
Priory  was  removed  from  Embsay  to  Bolton,  that  it  might  be  as  near 
as  possible  to  the  place  where  the  accident  happened.  That  place  is 
still  known  by  the  name  of  the  Strid;  and  the  mother's  answer,  as 
given  in  the  first  stanza,  is  to  this  day  often  repeated  in  Wharfedale. — 
See  WHITAKER'S  Hist,  of  Craven. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  143 

Blithe  was  his  song,  a  song  of  yore ; 

But  where  the  rock  is  rent  in  two, 

And  the  river  rushes  through, 

His  voice  was  heard  no  more ! 

'Twas  but  a  step!  the  gulf  he  passed; 

But  that  step  —  it  was  his  last! 

As  through  the  mist  he  winged  his  way, 

(A  cloud  that  hovers  night  and  day,) 

The  hound  hung  back,  and  back  he  drew 

The  Master  and  his  merlin  too. 

That  narrow  place  of  noise  and  strife 

Received  their  little  all  of  Life ! 

There  now  the  matin-bell  is  rung; 
The  "Miserere!"  duly  sung; 
And  holy  men  in  cowl  and  hood 
Are  wandering  up  and  down  the  wood. 
But  what  avail  they?     Ruthless  Lord, 
Thou  didst  not  shudder  when  the  sword 
Here  on  the  young  its  fury  spent, 
The  helpless  and  the  innocent. 
Sit  now  and  answer,  groan  for  groan. 
The  child  before  thee  is  thy  own. 
And  she  who  wanders  wildly  there, 
The  mother  in  her  long  despair, 
Shall  oft  remind  thee,  waking,  sleeping, 
Of  those  who  by  the  Wharfe  were  weeping; 
Of  those  who  would  not  be  consoled 
When  red  with  blood  the  river  rolled. 


144  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

WRITTEN  IN  A  SICK  CHAMBER. 

1793. 

THERE,  in  that  bed  so  closely  curtained  round, 
Worn  to  a  shade,  and  wan  with  slow  decay, 
A  father  sleeps !     Oh  hushed  be  every  sound ! 
Soft  may  we  breathe  the  midnight  hours  away ! 

He  stirs  —  yet  still  he  sleeps.     May  heavenly  dreams 
Long  o'er  his  smooth  and  settled  pillow  rise; 
Nor  fly,  till  morning  thro'  the  shutter  streams, 
And  on  the  hearth  the  glimmering  rush-light  dies. 


TO * 

1805. 

AH  !  little  thought  she,  when,  with  wild  delight, 
By  many  a  torrent's  shining  track  she  flew, 
Wnen  mountain-glens  and  caverns  full  of  night 
O'er  her  young  mind  divine  enchantment  threw, 

That  in  her  veins  a  secret  horror  slept, 
That  her  light  footsteps  should  be  heard  no  more, 
That  she  should  die  —  nor  watched,  alas!  nor  wept 
By  thee,  unconscious  of  the  pangs  she  bore. 

Yet  round  her  couch  indulgent  Fancy  drew 

The  kindred  forms  her  closing  eye  required. 

There  didst  thou  stand  —  there,  with  the  smile  she  knew; 

She  moved  her  lips  to  bless  thee,  and  expired. 

*  On  the  death  of  her  sister. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  145 

And  now  to  thee  she  comes;  still,  still  the  same 
As  in  the  hours  gone  unregarded  by ! 
To  thee,  how  changed,  comes  as  she  ever  came ; 
Health  on  her  cheek,  and  pleasure  in  her  eye ! 

Nor  less,  less  oft,  as  on  that  day  appears, 
When  lingering,  as  prophetic  of  the  truth, 
By  the  way-side  she  shed  her  parting  tears  — 
For  ever  lovely  in  the  light  of  Youth ! 


TO  A  FRIEND  ON  HIS  MARRIAGE. 

1798. 

ON  thee,  blest  youth,  a  father's  hand  confers 
The  maid  thy  earliest,  fondest  wishes  knew. 
Each  soft  enchantment  of  the  soul  is  hers ; 
Thine  be  the  joys  to  firm  attachment  due. 

As  on  she  moves  with  hesitating  grace, 
She  wins  assurance  from  his  soothing  voice; 
And,  with  a  look  the  pencil  could  not  trace, 
Smiles  thro'  her  blushes,  and  confirms  the  choice. 

Spare  the  fine  tremors  of  her  feeling  frame ! 
To  thee  she  turns  —  forgive  a  virgin's  fears ! 
To  thee  she  turns  with  surest,  tenderest  claim: 
Weakness  that  charms,  reluctance  that  endears ! 

At  each  response  the  sacred  rite  requires, 
From  her  full  bosom  bursts  the  unbidden  sigh. 
A  strange  mysterious  awe  the  scene  inspires; 
And  on  her  lips  the  trembling  accents  die. 
13  T 


146  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

O'er  her  fair  face  what  wild  emotions  play ! 
What  lights  and  shades  in  sweet  confusion  blend ! 
Soon  shall  they  fly,  glad  harbingers  of  day, 
And  settled  sunshine  on  her  soul  descend ! 

Ah  soon,  thine  own  confest,  ecstatic  thought ! 
That  hand  shall  strew  thy  summer-path  with  flowers; 
And  those  blue  eyes,  with  mildest  lustre  fraught, 
Gild  the  cairn  current  of  domestic  hours ! 


THE  ALPS  AT  DAY-BREAK. 
1782. 

THE  sun-beams  streak  the  azure  skies, 
And  line  with  light  the  mountain's  brow 
With  hounds  and  horns  the  hunters  rise, 
And  chase  the  roebuck  thro'  the  snow. 

From  rock  to  rock,  with  giant-bound, 
High  on  their  iron  poles  they  pass ; 
Mute,  lest  the  air,  convulsed  by  sound, 
Rend  from  above  a  frozen  mass. 

The  goats  wind  slow  their  wonted  way, 
Up  craggy  steeps  and  ridges  rude; 
Marked  by  the  wild  wolf  for  his  prey, 
From  desert  cave  or  hanging  wood. 

And  while  the  torrent  thunders  loud, 
And  as  the  echoing  cliffs  reply, 
The  huts  peep  o'er  the  morning-cloud, 
Perched,  like  an  eagle's  nest,  on  high. 


MISCELLANEOUS     POEMS.  147 

A  CHARACTER. 

As  thro'  the  hedge-row  shade  the  violet  steals, 
And  the  sweet  air  its  modest  leaf  reveals ; 
Her  softer  charms,  but  by  their  influence  known, 
Surprise  all  hearts,  and  mould  them  to  her  own. 


CAGED  in  old  woods,  whose  reverend  echoes  wake 

When  the  hern  screams  along  the  distant  lake, 

Her  little  heart  oft  flutters  to  be  free, 

Oft  sighs  to  turn  the  unrelenting  key. 

In  vain !  the  nurse  that  rusted  relic  wears, 

Nor  moved  by  gold  —  nor  to  be  moved  by  tears; 

And  terraced  walls  their  black  reflection  throw 

On  the  green  mantled  moat  that  sleeps  below. 


A  FAREWELL 1797. 

ADIEU  !     A  long,  a  long  adieu ! 
I  must  be  gone  while  yet  I  may. 
Oft  shall  I  weep  to  think  of  you; 
But  here  I  will  not,  cannot  stay. 

The  sweet  expression  of  that  face, 
For  ever  changing,  yet  the  same, 
Ah  no,  I  dare  not  turn  to  trace  — 
It  melts  my  soul,  it  fires  my  frame! 

Yet  give  me,  give  me,  ere  I  go, 
One  little  lock  of  those  so  blest, 
That  lend  your  cheek  a  warmer  glow, 
And  on  your  white  neck  love  to  rest. 


148  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


TO 


Go  —  you  may  call  it  madness,  folly; 
You  shall  not  chase  my  gloom  away ! 
There's  such  a  charm  in  melancholy, 
I  would  not,  if  I  could,  be  gay. 

Oh,  if  you  knew  the  pensive  pleasure 
That  fills  my  bosom  when  I  sigh, 
You  would  not  rob  me  of  a  treasure 
Monarchs  are  too  poor  to  buy. 


TO  A  FRAGMENT  OP 

A   STATUE    OF   HERCULES, 

COMMONLY   CALLED 

THE  TORSO. 

AND  dost  thou  still,  thou  mass  of  breathing  stone, 
(Thy  giant  limbs  to  night  and  chaos  hurled) 
Still  sit  as  on  the  fragment  of  a  world; 
Surviving  all,  majestic  and  alone? 
What  tho'  the  Spirits  of  the  North,  that  swept 
Rome  from  the  earth,  when  in  her  pomp  she  slept, 
Smote  thee  with  fury,  and  thy  headless  trunk 
Deep  in  the  dust  'mid  tower  and  temple  sunk ; 
Soon  to  subdue  mankind  'twas  thine  to  rise, 
Still,  still  unquelled  thy  glorious  energies ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  149 

Aspiring  minds,  with  thee  conversing,  caught 
Bright  revelations  of  the  Good  they  sought ;  * 
By  thee  that  long-lost  spell  f  in  secret  given, 
To  draw  down  Gods,  and  lift  the  soul  to  Heaven ! 


A  WISH. 

1782. 

MINE  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill; 
A  bee-hive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear; 
A  willowy  brook,  that  turns  a  mill, 
With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow  oft,  beneath  my  thatch, 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest; 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivy'd  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew; 
And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village-church,  among  the  trees, 
Where  first  our  marriage-vows  were  given, 
With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze, 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 

*  In  the  gardens  of  the  Vatican,  where  it  was  placed  by  Julius  II., 
it  was  long  the  favourite  study  of  those  great  men  to  whom  we  owe  the 
revival  of  the  arts,  Michael  Angelo,  Raphael,  and  the  Caracci. 

f  Once  in  the  possession  of  Praxiteles,  if  we  may  believe  an  ancient 
epigram  on  the  Guidian  Venus. 

Analecta  Vet.  Poetarum,  III.  200. 

13* 


150  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

TO  THE  GNAT. 

WHEN  by  the  green-wood  side,  at  summer  eve, 
Poetic  visions  charm  my  closing  eye; 
And  fairy-scenes,  that  fancy  loves  to  weave, 
Shift  to  wild  notes  of  sweetest  minstrelsy ; 
'Tis  thine  to  range  in  busy  quest  of  prey, 
Thy  feathery  antlers  quivering  with  delight, 
Brush  from  my  lids  the  hues  of  heaven  away, 
And  all  is  Solitude,  and  all  is  Night ! 

—  Ah  now  thy  barbed  shaft,  relentless  fly, 
Unsheaths  its  terrors  in  the  sultry  air ! 
No  guardian  sylph,  in  golden  panoply 

Lifts  the  broad  shield,  and  points  the  glittering  spear. 
Now  near  and  nearer  rush  thy  whirring  wings, 
Thy  dragon-scales  still  wet  with  human  gore. 
Hark,  thy  shrill  horn  its  fearful  larum  flings ! 

—  I  wake  in  horror,  and  dare  sleep  no  more ! 


TO  THE  BUTTERFLY. 

CHILD  of  the  sun !  pursue  thy  rapturous  flight, 
Mingling  with  her  thou  lov'st  in  fields  of  light ; 
And,  where  the  flowers  of  Paradise  unfold, 
Quaff  fragrant  nectar  from  their  cups  of  gold. 
There  shall  thy  wings,  rich  as  an  evening-sky, 
Expand  and  shut  with  silent  ecstasy ! 
— Yet  wert  thou  once  a  worm,  a  thing  that  crept 
On  the  bare  earth,  then  wrought  a  tomb  and  slept. 
And  such  is  man  ;  soon  from  his  cell  of  clay 
To  burst  a  seraph  in  the  blaze  of  day! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  151 

AN  EPITAPH 

ON  A  ROBIN  RED-BREAST.* 

TREAD  lightly  here,  for  here,  'tis  said, 
When  piping  winds  are  hushed  around, 
A  small  note  wakes  from  underground, 
Where  now  his  tiny  bones  are  laid. 
No  more  in  lone  and  leafless  groves, 
With  ruffled  wing  and  faded  breast, 
His  friendless,  homeless  spirit  roves; 
—  Gone  to  the  world  where  birds  are  blest! 
Where  never  cat  glides  o'er  the  green, 
Or  school-boy's  giant  form  is  seen; 
But  Love,  and  Joy,  and  smiling  Spring 
Inspire  their  little  souls  to  sing ! 


AN  ITALIAN  SONG. 
1782. 


DEAR  is  my  little  native  vale, 

The  ring-dove  builds  and  murmurs  there; 

Close  by  my  cot  she  tells  her  tale 

To  every  passing  villager. 

The  squirrel  leaps  from  tree  to  tree, 

And  shells  his  nuts  at  liberty. 

*  Inscribed  on  an  urn  in  the  flower-garden  at  Hafod. 


152  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

In  orange-groves  and  myrtle-bowers, 
That  breathe  a  gale  of  fragrance  round, 
I  charm  the  fairy-footed  hours 
With  my  loved  lute's  romantic  sound; 
Or  crowns  of  living  laurel  weave, 
For  those  that  win  the  race  at  eve. 

The  shepherd's  horn  at  break  of  day, 
The  ballet  danced  in  twilight  glade, 
The  canzonet  and  roundelay 
Sung  in  the  silent  green-wood  shade ; 
These  simple  joys,  that  never  fail, 
Shall  bind  me  to  my  native  vale. 


WRITTEN   IN 

THE  HIGHLANDS  OF  SCOTLAND. 

SEPTEMBER  2,  1812. 

BLUE  was  the  loch,  the  clouds  were  gone, 

Ben-Lomond  in  his  glory  shone, 

When,  Luss,  I  left  thee;  when  the  breeze 

Bore  me  from  thy  silver  sands, 

Thy  kirk-yard  wall  among  the  trees, 

Where,  grey  with  age,  the  dial  stands, 

That  dial  so  well-known  to  me ! 

—  Tho'  many  a  shadow  it  had  shed, 

Beloved  Sister,  since  with  thee 

The  legend  on  the  stone  was  read. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  153 

The  fairy-isles  fled  far  away; 
That  with  its  woods  and  uplands  green, 
"Where  shepherd-huts  are  dimly  seen, 
And  songs  are  heard  at  close  of  day; 
That  too,  the  deer's  wild  covert,  fled, 
And  that,  the  asylum  of  the  dead: 
While,  as  the  boat  went  merrily, 
Much  of  ROB  ROY  the  boat-man  told; 
His  arm  that  fell  below  his  knee, 
His  cattle-ford  and  mountain-hold. 

Tarbat,*  thy  shore  I  climbed  at  last ; 
And,  thy  shady  region  passed, 
Upon  another  shore  I  stood, 
And  looked  upon  another  flood  ;f 
Great  Ocean's  self!     ('Tis  He  who  fills 
.  That  vast  and  awful  depth  of  hills ;) 
Where  many  an  elf  was  playing  round, 
Who  treads  unshod  his  classic  ground ; 
And  speaks,  his  native  rocks  among, 
As  FINGAL  spoke,  and  OSSIAN  sung. 

Night  fell ;  and  dark  and  darker  grew 
That  narrow  sea,  that  narrow  sky, 
As  o'er  the  glimmering  waves  we  flew; 
The  sea-bird  rustling,  wailing  by. 
And  now  the  grampus,  half-descried, 
Black  and  huge  above  the  tide ; 

»  Signifying  in  the  Gaelic  language  an  Isthmus. 
f  Loch-long. 

U 


154  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

The  cliffs  and  promontories  there, 

Front  to  front,  and  broad  and  bare; 

Each  beyond  each,  with  giant-feet 

Advancing  as  in  haste  to  meet ; 

The  shattered  fortress,  whence  the  Dane 

Blew  his  shrill  blast,  nor  rushed  in  vain, 

Tyrant  of  the  drear  domain ; 

All  into  midnight-shadow  sweep  — 

When  day  springs  upward  from  the  deep !  * 

Kindling  the  waters  in  its  flight, 

The  prow  wakes  splendour;  and  the  oar, 

That  rose  and  fell  unseen  before, 

Flashes  in  a  sea  of  light ! 

Glad  sign,  and  sure !  for  now  we  hail 

Thy  flowers,  Glenfinnart,  in  the  gale ; 

And  bright  indeed  the  path  should  be, 

That  leads  to  Friendship  and  to  Thee ! 

Oh  blest  retreat  and  sacred  too ! 
Sacred  as  when  the  bell  of  prayer 
Tolled  duly  on  the  desert  air, 
And  crosses  decked  thy  summits  blue. 
Oft,  like  some  loved  romantic  tale, 
Oft  shall  my  weary  mind  recall, 
Amid  the  hum  and  stir  of  men, 
Thy  beechen  grove  and  waterfall, 
Thy  ferry  with  its  gliding  sail, 
And  Her  —  the  Lady  of  the  Glen ! 

*  A  phenomenon  described  by  many  navigators. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  155 

AN  INSCRIPTION 

IN   THE   CRIMEA.    > 

SHEPHERD,  or  Huntsman,  or  -worn  Mariner, 
Whate'er  thou  art,  who  wouldst  allay  thy  thirst, 
Drink  and  be  glad.     This  cistern  of  white  stone, 
Arched,  and  o'erwrought  with  many  a  sacred  verse, 
This  iron  cup  chained  for  the  general  use, 
And  these  rude  seats  of  earth  within  the  grove, 
Were  given  by  FATIMA.     Borne  hence  a  bride, 
'Twas  here  she  turned  from  her  beloved  sire, 
To  see  his  face  no  more.*     Oh,  if  thou  canst, 
('Tis  not  far  off)  visit  his  tomb  with  flowers; 
And  with  a  drop  of  this  sweet  water  fill 
The  two  small  cells  scooped  in  the  marble  there, 
That  birds  may  come  and  drink  upon  his  grave, 
Making  it  holyf 

*  There  is  a  beautiful  story,  delivered  down  to  us  from  antiquity, 
which  will  here  perhaps  occur  to  the  reader. 

Icarius,  when  he  gave  Penelope  in  marriage  to  Ulysses,  endeavoured 
to  persuade  him  to  dwell  in  Lacedaemon ;  and,  when  all  he  urged  was 
to  no  purpose,  he  entreated  his  daughter  to  remain  with  him.  When 
Ulysses  set  out  with  his  bride  for  Ithaca,  the  old  man  followed  the 
chariot,  till,  overcome  by  his  importunity,  Ulysses  consented  that  it 
should  be  left  with  Penelope  to  decide  whether  she  would  proceed  with 
him  or  return  with  her  father.  It  is  related,  says  Pausanias,  that  she 
made  no  reply,  but  that  she  covered  herself  with  her  veil ;  and  that 
Icarius,  perceiving  at  once  by  it  that  she  inclined  to  Ulysses,  suffered 
her  to  depart  with  him. 

A  statue  was  afterwards  placed  by  her  father  as  a  memorial  in  that 
part  of  the  road  where  she  had  covered  herself  with  her  veil.  It  was 
still  standing  there  in  the  days  of  Pausanias,  and  was  called  the  statue 
of  Modesty. 

•j-  A  Turkish  superstition. 


156  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

AN   INSCRIPTION  JOR  A  TEMPLE 

DEDICATED  TO  THE   GRACES.* 

APPROACH  with  reverence.     There  are  those  within. 
Whose  dwelling-place  is  Heaven.     Daughters  of  Jove, 
From  them  flow  all  the  decencies  of  Life; 
Without  them  nothing  pleases,  Virtue's  self 
Admired  not  loved;  and  those  on  whom  They  smile, 
Great  though  they  be,  and  wise  and  beautiful, 
Shine  forth  with  double  lustre. 


WRITTEN  IN  1834. 

WELL,  when  her  day  is  over,  be  it  said 
That,  though  a  speck  on  the  terrestrial  globe, 
Found  with  long  search  and  in  a  moment  lost, 
She  made  herself  a  name  —  a  name  to  live 
While  science,  eloquence,  and  song  divine, 
And  wisdom,  in  self-government  displayed, 
And  valour,  such  as  only  in  the  Free, 
Shall  among  men  be  honoured. 

Every  sea 

Was  covered  with  her  sails,  in  every  port 
Her  language  spoken;  and,  where'er  you  went, 
Exploring,  to  the  east,  or  to  the  west, 
Even  to  the  rising  or  the  setting  day, 
Her  arts  and  laws  and  institutes  were  there, 

At  Woburn- Abbe. 


MISCELLANEOUS     POEMS.  157 

Moving  with  silent  and  majestic  march, 
Onward  and  onward,  where  no  pathway  was ; 
There  her  adventurous  sons,  like  those  of  old, 
Founding  vast  empires*  —  empires  in  their  turn 
Destined  to  shine  thro'  many  a  distant  age 
With  sun-like  splendour. 

Wondrous  was  her  wealth, 
The  world  itself  her  willing  tributary ; 
Yet,  to  accomplish  what  her  soul  desired, 
All  was  as  nothing;  and  the  mightiest  kings, 
Each  in  his  hour  of  strife  exhausted,  fallen, 
Drew  strength  from  Her,  their  coifers  from  her  own 
Filled  to  o'erflowing.     When  her  fleets  of  war 
Had  swept  the  main ;  when  not  an  adverse  prow, 
From  pole  to  pole,  far  as  the  sea-bird  flies, 
Ruffled  the  tide ;  and  they  themselves  were  gone, 
Gone  from  the  eyes  and  from  the  minds  of  men, 
Their  dreadful  errands  so  entirely  done  — 
Up  rose  her  armies;  on  the  land  they  stood, 
Fearless,  erect;  and  in  an  instant  smote 
Him  with  his  legions. f 

*  North  America  speaks  for  itself ;  and  so  indeed  may  we  say  of 
India,  when  such  a  territory  is  ours  in  a  region  so  remote — "  a  territory 
larger  and  more  populous  than  Great  Britain  and  France  and  Spain,  and 
Germany  and  Italy  together ;"  when  a  company  of  merchants,  from 
such  small  beginnings,  have  established  a  dominion  so  absolute,  "where 
Trajan  never  penetrated  and  where  the  phalanx  of  Alexander  refused 
to  proceed"  —  a  dominion  over  a  people  for  ages  civilized  and  cultivated, 
while  we  were  yet  in  the  woods. 

f  Alluding  to  the  battle  of  Waterloo.  The  illustrious  Man  who  com- 
manded there  on  our  side,  and  who,  in  his  anxiety  to  do  justice  to 
others,  never  fails  to  forget  himself,  said  many  years  afterwards  to  the 
Author  with  some  agitation,  when  relating  an  occurrence  of  that  day, 
"  It  was  a  battle  of  giants !  " 

14 


158  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Yet  ere  long  'twas  hers, 
Great  as  her  triumphs,  to  eclipse  them  all, 
To  do  what  none  had  done,  none  had  conceived, 
An  act  how  glorious,  making  joy  in  heaven ! 
When,  such  her  prodigality,  condemned 
To  toil  and  toil,  alas,  how  hopelessly, 
Herself  in  bonds,  for  ages  unredeemed  — 
As  with  a  god-like  energy  she  sprung, 
All  else  forgot,  and,  burdened  as  she  was, 
Ransomed  the  African. 


AN  INCRIPTION 

. 

TOR   STRATFIELD    SATE. 

THESE  are  the  groves  a  grateful  people  gave 
For  noblest  service;  and  from  age  to  age, 
May  they,  to  such  as  come  with  listening  ear, 
Relate  the  story  !     Sacred  is  their  shade ; 
Sacred  the  calm  they  breathe  —  oh,  how  unlike 
What  in  the  field  'twas  his  so  long  to  know; 
Where  many  a  mournful,  many  an  anxious  thought, 
Troubling,  perplexing,  on  his  weary  mind 
Preyed,  ere  to  arms  the  morning-trumpet  called : 
Where,  till  the  work  was  done  and  darkness  fell, 
Blood  ran  like  water,  and,  go  where  thou  wouldst 
Death  in  thy  path-way  met  thee,  face  to  face. 

For  on,  regardless  of  himself,  He  went 
And,  by  no  change  elated  or  depressed, 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Fought,  till  he  won  the'  imperishable  wreath, 
Leading  the  conquerors  captive;  on  he  went, 
Bating  nor  heart  nor  hope,  whoe'er  opposed; 
The  greatest  warriors,  in  their  turn,  appearing ; 
The  last  that  came,  the  greatest  of  them  all  — 
One  scattering  fear,  as  born  but  to  subdue, 
And,  even  in  rout,  in  ruin,  scattering  fear; 
So  long,  till  warred  on  by  the  elements, 
Invincible ;  the  mightiest  of  the  earth  ! 

When  such  the  service,  what  the  recompence  ? 
What  was  not  due  to  him  if  he  survived? 
Yet,  if  I  err  not,  a  renown  as  fair, 
And  fairer  still,  awaited  him  at  home ; 
When  in  his  place,  day  after  day,  he  stood, 
The  party-zeal,  that  round  him  raged,  restraining; 
—  His  not  to  rest,  while  his  the  strength  to  serve. 


KEFLECTIONS. 

MAN  to  the  last  is  but  a  froward  child ; 

So  eager  for  the  future,  come  what  may, 

And  to  the  present  so  insensible ! 

Oh,  if  he  could  in  all  things  as  he  would, 

Years  would  as  days  and  hours  as  moments  be; 

He  would,  so  restless  is  his  spirit  here, 

Give  wings  to  Time,  and  wish  his  life  away ! 


ALAS,  to  our  discomfort  and  his  own, 
Oft  are  the  greatest  talents  to  be  found 


160  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

In  a  fool's  keeping.     For  -what  else  is  he, 

What  else  is  he,  however  worldly  wise, 

Who  can  pervert  and  to  the  worst  abuse 

The  noblest  means  to  serve  the  noblest  ends; 

Who  can  employ  the  gift  of  eloquence, 

That  sacred  gift,  to  dazzle  and  delude; 

Or,  if  achievement  in  the  field  be  his, 

Climb  but  to  gain  a  loss,  suffering  how  much, 

And  how  much  more  inflicting !     Every  where, 

Cost  what  they  will,  such  cruel  freaks  are  played ; 

And  hence  the  turmoil  in  this  world  of  ours, 

The  turmoil  never  ending,  still  beginning, 

The  wailing  and  the  tears. — When  C.ESAR  came, 

He  who  could  master  all  men  but  himself, 

Who  did  so  much  and  could  so  well  record  it; 

Even  he,  the  most  applauded  in  his  part, 

Who,  when  he  spoke,  all  things  summed  up  in  him, 

Spoke  to  convince,  nor  ever,  when  he  fought, 

Fought  but  to  conquer  —  what  a  life  was  his, 

Slaying  so  many,  to  be  slain  at  last,* 

A  life  of  trouble  and  incessant  toil, 

And  all  to  gain  what  is  far  better  missed  ! 


THE  heart,  they  say,  is  wiser  than  the  schools ; 
And  well  they  may.     All  that  is  great  in  thought, 
That  strikes  at  once  as  with  electric  fire, 
And  lifts  us,  as  it  were,  from  earth  to  heaven, 
Comes  from  the  heart;  and  who  confesses  not 
Its  voice  is  sacred,  nay  almost  divine, 
When  inly  it  declares  on  what  we  do, 


*  He  is  said  to  have  slain  a  million  of  men  in  Gaul  alone. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  161 

Blaming,  approving  ?     Let  an  erring  world 
Judge  as  it  will,  we  care  not  while  we  stand 
Acquitted  there ;  and  oft,  when  clouds  on  clouds 
Compass  us  round  and  not  a  track  appears, 
Oft  is  an  upright  heart  the  surest  guide, 
Surer  and  better  than  the  subtlest  head; 
Still  with  its  silent  counsels  thro'  the  dark 
Onward  and  onward  leading. 


THIS  Child,  so  lovely  and  so  cherub-like, 

(No  fairer  spirit  in  the  heaven  of  heavens) 

Say,  must  he  know  remorse?  must  Passion  come, 

Passion  in  all  or  any  of  its  shapes, 

To  cloud  and  sully  what  is  now  so  pure  ? 

Yes,  come  it  must.     For  who,  alas !  has  lived, 

Nor  in  the  watches  of  the  night  recalled 

"Words  he  has  wished  unsaid  and  deeds  undone? 

Yes,  come  it  must.     But  if,  as  we  may  hope, 

He  learns  ere  long  to  discipline  his  mind, 

And  onward  goes,  humbly  and  cheerfully, 

Assisting  them  that  faint,  weak  though  he  be, 

And  in  his  trying  hours  trusting  in  God — 

Fair  as  he  is,  he  shall  be  fairer  still ; 

For  what  was  Innocence  will  then  be  Virtue. 


OH,  if  the  selfish  knew  how  much  they  lost, 
What  would  they  not  endeavour,  not  endure, 
To  imitate,  as  far  as  in  them  lay, 
Him  who  his  wisdom  and  his  power  employs 
In  making  others  happy! 

14*  V 


162  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


WRITTEN  AT  DROPMORE, 

JULY,  1831. 

GKENVILLE,  to  thee  my  gratitude  is  due 

For  many  an  hour  of  studious  musing  here, 

For  many  a  day-dream,  such  as  hovered  round 

Hafiz  or  Sadi;  thro'  the  golden  East, 

Search  where  we  would,  no  fairer  bowers  than  these, 

Thine  own  creation;  where,  called  forth  by  theo, 

"Flowers  worthy  of  Paradise,  with  rich  inlay, 

Broider  the  ground,"  and  every  mountain-pine 

Elsewhere  unseen  (his  birth-place  in  the  clouds, 

His  kindred  sweeping  with  majestic  march 

From  cliff  to  cliff  along  the  snowy  ridge 

Of  Caucasus,  or  nearer  yet  the  Moon) 

Breathes  heavenly  music. — Yet  much  more  I  owe 

For  what  so  few,  alas  !  can  hope  to  share, 

Thy  converse;  when  among  thy  books  reclined, 

Or  in  thy  garden  chair  that  wheels  its  course 

Slowly  and  silently  thro'  sun  and  shade, 

Thou  speak'st,  as  ever  thou  art  wont  to  do, 

In  the  calm  temper  of  philosophy ; 

—  Still  to  delight,  instruct,  whate'er  the  theme. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  163 


WRITTEN  IN  JULY. 

1834. 

GREY,  thou  hast  served,  and  well,  the  sacred  Cause 

That  Hampden,  Sydney  died  for.     Thou  hast  stood, 

Scorning  all  thought  of  Self,  from  first  to  last, 

Among  the  foremost  in  that  glorious  field; 

From  first  to  last ;  and,  ardent  as  thou  art, 

Held  on  with  equal  step  as  best  became 

A  lofty  mind,  loftiest  when  most  assailed ; 

Never,  though  galled  by  many  a  barbed  shaft, 

By  many  a  bitter  taunt  from  friend  and  foe, 

Swerving,  or  shrinking.     Happy  in  thy  Youth, 

Thy  Youth  the  dawn  of  a  long  summer-day; 

But  in  thy  Age  still  happier;  thine  to  earn 

The  gratitude  of  millions  yet  to  be; 

Thine  to  conduct,  through  ways  how  difficult, 

A  mighty  people  in  their  march  sublime 

From  Good  to  Better.     Great  thy  recompence, 

When  in  their  eyes  thou  read'st  what  thou  hast  done 

And  may'st  thou  long  enjoy  it;  may'st  thou  long 

Preserve  for  them  what  still  they  claim  as  theirs, 

That  generous  fervour  and  pure  eloquence, 

Thine  from  thy  birth  and  Nature's  noblest  gifts, 

To  guard  what  They  have  gained ! 


164  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

WRITTEN  IN 

WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  * 

OCTOBER    10,   1806. 

WHOE'ER  thou  art,  approach,  and  with  a  sigh, 

Mark  where  the  small  remains  of  Greatness  lie.f 

There  sleeps  the  dust  of  FOX  for  ever  gone; 

How  near  the  place  where  late  his  glory  shone ! 

And,  tho'  no  more  ascends  the  voice  of  Prayer, 

Tho'  the  last  footsteps  cease  to  linger  there, 

Still,  like  an  awful  dream  that  comes  again, 

Alas,  at  best,  as  transient  and  as  vain, 

Still  do  I  see  (while  thro'  the  vaults  of  night 

The  funeral-song  once  more  proclaims  the  rite) 

The  moving  Pomp  along  the  shadowy  aisle. 

That,  like  a  Darkness,  filled  the  solemn  Pile; 

The  illustrious  line,  that  in  long  order  led, 

Of  those,  that  loved  Him  living,  mourned  Him  dead; 

Of  those  the  Few,  that  for  their  Country  stood 

Round  Him  who  dared  be  singularly  good; 

All,  of  all  ranks,  that  claimed  him  for  their  own; 

And  nothing  wanting  —  but  Himself  alone  !  J 

Oh  say,  of  Him  now  rests  there  but  a  name; 
Wont,  as  He  was,  to  breathe  ethereal  flame? 
Friend  of  the  Absent,  Guardian  of  the  Dead ! 
Who  but  would  here  their  sacred  sorrows  shed? 

*  After  the  Funeral  of  the  Right  Hon.  CHARLES  JAMES  Fox. 

f  Venez  voir  le  peu  qui  nous  reste  de  tant  de  grandeur,  &c.  —  BOS- 
SUET.  Oraison  funebre  de  Louis  de  Bourbon. 

J  Et  rien  enfin  ne  manque  dans  tous  ces  honneurs,  que  celui  a  qui 
on  les  rend.  —  Ibid. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS.  165 

(Such  as  He  shed  on  NELSON'S  closing  grave ; 
How  soon  to  claim  the  sympathy  He  gave !) 
In  Him,  resentful  of  another's  wrong, 
The  dumb  were  eloquent,  the  feeble  strong. 
Truth  from  his  lips  a  charm  celestial  drew  — 
Ah,  who  so  mighty  and  so  gentle  too  ? 

What  tho'  with  War  the  madding  Nations  rung, 
'Peace,'  when  He  spoke,  was  ever  on  his  tongue! 
Amid  the  frowns  of  Power,  the  tricks  of  State, 
Fearless,  resolved,  and  negligently  great ! 
In  vain  malignant  vapours  gathered  round: 
•He  walked,  erect,  on  consecrated  ground. 
The  clouds,  that  rise  to  quench  the  Orb  of  day, 
Reflect  its  splendour,  and  dissolve  away ! 

When  in  retreat  He  laid  his  thunder  by, 
For  lettered  ease  and  calm  Philosophy, 
Blest  were  his  hours  within  the  silent  grove, 
Where  still  his  god-like  Spirit  deigns  to  rove; 
Blest  by  the  orphan's  smile,  the  widow's  prayer, 
For  many  a  deed  long  done  in  secret  there. 
There  shone  his  lamp  on  Homer's  hallowed  page, 
There,  listening,  sate  the  hero  and  the  sage ; 
And  they,  by  virtue  and  by  blood  allied, 
Whom  most  He  loved,  and  in  whose  arms  He  died. 

Friend  of  all  Human-kind!  not  here  alone 
(The  voice,  that  speaks,  was  not  to  thee  unknown) 
Wilt  Thou  be  missed.  —  O'er  every  land  and  sea 
Long,  long  shall  England  be  revered  in  Thee  ! 
And,  when  the  Storm  is  hushed  —  in  distant  years  — 
Foes  on  thy  grave  shall  meet,  and  mingle  tears ! 


THE 

VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS 

1812. 

CHI   BE'   TTT,    CHE   VIENI ? 

DA   ME   STESSO   NON   VEGNO. 

DANTE. 

PREFACE. 

THE  following  Poem  (or,  to  speak  more  properly,  what 
remains  of  it*)  lias  here  and  there  a  lyrical  turn  of  thought 
and  expression.  It  is  sudden  in  its  transitions,  and  full 
of  historical  allusions ;  leaving  much  to  be  imagined  by 
the  reader. 

The  subject  is  a  voyage  most  memorable  in  the  annals 
of  mankind.  Columbus  was  a  person  of  extraordinary 
virtue  and  piety,  acting  under  the  sense  of  a  Divine 
impulse;  and  his  achievement  the  discovery  of  a  New 
World,  the  inhabitants  of  which  were  shut  out  from  the 
light  of  Revelation,  and  given  up,  as  they  believed,  to  the 
dominion  of  malignant  spirits. 

*  The  Original  in  the  Castilian  language,  according  to  the  Inscription 
that  follows,  was  found  among  other  MSS.  in  an  old  religious  house 
near  Palos,  situated  on  an  island  formed  by  the  river  Tinto,  and  dedi- 
cated to  our  Lady  of  La  Rdbida.  The  Writer  describes  himself  as 
having  sailed  with  Columbus ;  but  his  style  and  manner  are  evidently 
of  an  after-time. 

(166) 


TIIE    VOYAGE    OP    COLUMBUS.  167 

Many  of  the  incidents  will  now  be  thought  extravagant ; 
yet  they  were  once  perhaps  received  with  something  more 
than  indulgence.  It  was  an  age  of  miracles ;  and  who 
can  say  that  among  the  venerable  legends  in  the  library 
of  the  Escurial,  or  the  more  authentic  records  which  fill 
the  great  chamber  in  the  Archivo  of  Simancus,  and  which 
relate  entirely  to  the  deep  tragedy  of  America,  there  are 
no  volumes  that  mention  the  marvellous  things  here  de- 
scribed? Indeed  the  story,  as  already  told  throughout 
Europe,  admits  of  no  heightening.  Such  was  the  religious 
enthusiasm  of  the  early  writers,  that  the  Author  had  only 
to  transfuse  it  into  his  verse ;  and  he  appears  to  have 
done  little  more ;  though  some  of  the  circumstances, 
which  he  alludes  to  as  well-known,  have  long  ceased  to 
be  so.  By  using  the  language  of  that  day,  he  has  called 
up  Columbus  "in  the  habit  as  he  lived;"  and  the  au- 
thorities, such  as  exist,  are  carefully  given  by  the 
Translator. 


INSCRIBED  ON  THE  ORIGINAL  MANUSCRIPT. 

UNCLASP  me,  Stranger;  and  unfold, 
With  trembling  care  my  leaves  of  gold, 
Rich  in  gothic  portraiture  — 
If  yet,  alas,  a  leaf  endure. 

In  RABIDA'S  monastic  fane 
I  cannot  ask,  and  ask  in  vain. 
The  language  of  CASTILE  I  speak; 
Mid  many  an  Arab,  many  a  Greek, 
Old  in  the  days  of  CHARLEMAIN; 


168  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

When  minstrel-music  wandered  round, 
And  Science,  waking,  blessed  the  sound. 

No  earthly  thought  has  here  a  place, 
The  cowl  let  down  on  every  face ; 
Yet  here,  in  consecrated  dust, 
Here  would  I  sleep,  if  sleep  I  must. 
From  GENOA  when  COLUMBUS  came, 
(At  once  her  glory  and  her  shame) 
'Twas  here  he  caught  the  holy  flame. 
'Twas  here  the  generous  vow  he  made ; 
His  banners  on  the  altar  laid. 

Here  tempest-worn  and  desolate* 
A  Pilot,  journeying  thro'  the  wild, 
Stopt  to  solicit  at  the  gate 
A  pittance  for  his  child. 
'Twas  here,  unknowing  and  unknown, 
He  stood  upon  the  threshold-stone. 
But  hope  was  his  —  a  faith  sublime, 
That  triumphs  over  place  and  time; 

*  We  have  an  interesting  account  of  his  first  appearance  in  Spain, 
that  country  which  was  so  soon  to  be  the  theatre  of  his  glory.  Accord- 
ing to  the  testimony  of  Garcia  Fernandez,  the  physician  of  Palos,  a 
sea-faring  man,  accompanied  by  a  very  young  boy,  stopped  one  day  at 
the  gate  of  the  convent  of  La  Rabida  and  asked  of  the  porter  a  little 
bread  and  water  for  his  child.  While  they  were  receiving  this  humble 
refreshment,  the  Prior,  Juan  Perez,  happening  to  pass  by,  was  struck 
with  the  look  and  manner  of  the  stranger,  and  entering  into  conversa- 
tion with  him,  soon  learnt  the  particulars  of  his  story.  The  stranger 
•was  Columbus  ;  the  boy  was  his  son  Diego  ;  and,  but  for  this  accidental 
interview,  America  might  have  remained  long  undiscovered :  for  it  was 
to  the  zeal  of  Juan  Perez  that  he  was  finally  indebted  for  the  accom- 
plishment of  his  great  purpose.  See  Irving's  History  of  Columbus. 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS.  169 

And  here,  his  mighty  labour  done, 
And  his  course  of  glory  run, 
Awhile  as  more  than  man  he  stood, 
So  large  the  debt  of  gratitude ! 

One  hallowed  morn,  methought,  I  felt 
As  if  a  soul  within  me  dwelt ! 
But  who  arose  and  gave  to  me 
The  sacred  trust  I  keep  for  thee, 
And  in  his  cell  at  even-tide 
Knelt  before  the  cross  and  died  — 
Inquire  not  now.     His  name  no  more 
Glimmers  on  the  chancel-floor, 
Near  the  lights  that  ever  shine 
Before  ST.  MARY'S  blessed  shrine. 

To  me  one  little  hour  devote, 
And  lay  thy  staff  and  scrip  beside  thee; 
Bead  in  the  temper  that  he  wrote, 
And  may  his  gentle  spirit  guide  thee ! 
My  leaves  forsake  me,  one  by  one; 
The  book-worm  thro'  and  thro'  has  gone. 
Oh  haste  —  unclasp  me,  and  unfold; 
The  tale  within  was  never  told ! 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 

THERE  is  a  spirit  in  the  old  Spanish  Chroniclers  of 

the   sixteenth   century  that   may  be   compared   to   the 

freshness  of  water  at  the  fountain-head.    Their  simplicity, 

their  sensibility  to  the  strange  and  the  wonderful,  their 

15  w 


170  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

very  weaknesses  give  an  infinite  value,  by  giving  a  life 
and  a  character  to  every  thing  they  touch ;  and  their 
religion,  Avhich  bursts  out  every  where,  addresses  itself 
to  the  imagination  in  the  highest  degree.  If  they  err, 
their  errors  are  not  their  own.  They  think  and  feel 
after  the  fashion  of  the  time ;  and  their  narratives  are 
so  many  moving  pictures  of  the  actions,  manners,  and 
thoughts  of  their  contemporaries. 

What  they  had  to  communicate,  might  well  make 
them  eloquent ;  but,  inasmuch  as  relates  to  Columbus, 
the  Inspiration  went  no  farther.  No  National  Poem 
appeared  on  the  subject;  no  Camoens  did  honour  to 
his  Genius  and  his  Virtues.  Yet  the  materials,  that 
have  descended  to  us,  are  surely  not  unpoetical ;  and 
a  desire  to  avail  myself  of  them,  to  convey  in  some 
instances  as  far  as  I  could,  in  others  as  far  as  I  dared, 
their  warmth  of  colouring  and  wildness  of  imagery,  led 
me  to  conceive  the  idea  of  a  Poem  written  not  long 
after  his  death,  when  the  great  consequences  of  the 
Discovery  were  beginning  to  unfold  themselves,  but  while 
the  minds  of  men  were  still  clinging  to  the  superstitions 
of  their  fathers. 

The  Event  here  described  may  be  thought  too  recent 
for  the  Machinery ;  but  I  found  them  together.*  A 
belief  in  the  agency  of  Evil  Spirits  prevailed  over  both 
hemispheres ;  and  even  yet  seems  almost  necessary  to 
enable  us  to  clear  up  the  Darkness, 

And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  Men. 

*  Perhaps  even  a  contemporary  subject  should  not  be  rejected  as 
such,  however  wild  and  extravagant  it  may  be,  if  the  manners  be  foreign 
and  the  place  distant  —  major  e  longinquo  reverentia.  L'e"loignement 
des  pays,  says  Racine,  rdpare  en  quelque  sorte  la  trop  grande  proximite" 
des  temps ;  car  le  peuple  ne  met  guere  de  difference  entre  ce  qui  est, 
si  j'ose  ainsi  parler,  a,  mille  ans  de  lui,  et  ce  qui  en  est  a  mille  lieues. 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS.  171 


THE   ARGUMENT. 

COLUMBUS,  having  wandered  from  kingdom  to  kingdom,  at  length 
obtains  three  ships  and  sets  sail  on  the  Atlantic.  The  compass  alters 
from  its  ancient  direction ;  the  wind  becomes  constant  and  unremitting; 
night  and  day  he  advances,  till  he  is  suddenly  stopped  in  his  course  by 
a  mass  of  vegetation,  extending  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  and 
assuming  the  appearance  of  a  country  overwhelmed  by  the  sea.  Alarm 
and  despondence  on  board.  He  resigns  himself  to  the  care  of  Heaven, 
and  proceeds  on  his  voyage. 

Meanwhile  the  deities  of  America  assemble  in  council ;  and  one  of 
the  Zemi,  the  gods  of  the  islanders,  announces  his  approach.  "  In 
vain,"  says  he,  "have  we  guarded  the  Atlantic  for  ages.  A  mortal  has 
baffled  our  power ;  nor  will  our  votaries  arm  against  him.  Yours  are 
a  sterner  race.  Hence !  and,  while  we  have  recourse  to  stratagem,  do 
you  array  the  nations  round  your  altars,  and  prepare  for  an  extermi- 
nating war."  They  disperse  while  he  is  yet  speaking;  and,  in  the 
shape  of  a  condor,  he  directs  his  flight  to  the  fleet.  His  journey  des- 
cribed. He  arrives  there.  A  panic.  A  mutiny.  Columbus  restores 
order ;  continues  on  his  voyage ;  and  lands  in  a  New  World.  Cere- 
monies of  the  first  interview.  Rites  of  hospitality.  The  ghost  of 
Cazziva. 

Two  months  pass  away,  and  an  angel,  appearing  in  a  dream  to 
Columbus,  thus  addresses  him:  "Return  to  Europe;  though  your 
Adversaries,  such  is  the  will  of  Heaven,  shall  let  loose  the  hurricane 
against  you.  A  little  while  shall  they  triumph ;  insinuating  themselves 
into  the  hearts  of  your  followers,  and  making  the  World,  which  you 
came  to  bless,  a  scene  of  blood  and  slaughter.  Yet  is  there  cause  for 
rejoicing.  Your  work  is  done.  The  cross  of  Christ  is  planted  here ; 
and,  in  due  time,  all  things  shall  be  made  perfect!" 


172  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

CANTO   I. 

Night — Columbus  on  the  Atlantic — the  Variation  of  the  Compass,  $c. 

SAY  who,  when  age  on  age  has  rolled  away, 

And  still,  as  sunk  the  golden  Orb  of  day, 

The  seamen  watched  him,  while  he  lingered  here, 

With  many  a  wish  to  follow,  many  a  fear, 

And  gazed  and  gazed,  and  wondered  where  he  went, 

So  bright  his  path,  so  glorious  his  descent, 

Who  first  adventured  —  In  his  birth  obscure, 

Yet  born  to  build  a  Fame  that  should  endure, 

Who  the  great  secret  of  the  Deep  possessed, 

And  issuing  through  the  portals  of  the  West, 

Fearless,  resolved,  with  every  sail  unfurled, 

Planted  his  standard  on  the  Unknown  World? 

Him,  by  the  Paynim  bard  descried  of  yore, 

And  ere  his  coming  sung  on  either  shore, 

Him,  ere  the  birth  of  Time  by  Heaven  designed 

To  lift  the  veil  that  covered  half  mankind, 

None  can  exalt 

Yet,  ere  I  die,  I  would  fulfil  my  vow ; 
Praise  cannot  wound  his  generous  spirit  now. 
****** 

'Twas  night.     The  Moon,  o'er  the  wide  wave,  disclosed 
Her  awful  face;  and  Nature's  self  reposed; 
When,  slowly  rising  in  the  azure  sky, 
Three  white  sails  shone  —  but  to  no  mortal  eye, 
Entering  a  boundless  sea.     In  slumber  cast, 
The  very  ship-boy,  on  the  dizzy  mast, 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS.  173 

Half  breathed  his  orisons !     Alone  unchanged, 

Calmly,  beneath,  the  great  Commander  ranged, 

Thoughtful  not  sad;  and,  as  the  planet  grew, 

His  noble  form,  wrapt  in  his  mantle  blue, 

Athwart  the  deck  a  deepening  shadow  threw. 

"Thee  hath  it  pleased  —  Thy  will  be  done!"  he  said,] 

Then  sought  his  cabin  ;  and,  their  garments  spread, 

Around  him  lay  the  sleeping  as  the  dead, 

When,  by  his  lamp  to  that  mysterious  Guide, 

On  whose  still  counsels  all  his  hopes  relied, 

That  Oracle  to  man  in  mercy  given, 

Whose  voice  is  truth,  whose  wisdom  is  from  heaven, 

Who  over  sands  and  seas  directs  the  stray, 

And,  as  with  God's  own  finger,  points  the  way, 

He  turned ;  but  what  strange  thoughts  perplexed  his  soul, 

When,  lo,  no  more  attracted  to  the  Pole, 

The  compass,  faithless  as  the  circling  vane, 

Fluttered  and  fixed,  fluttered  and  fixed  again ! 

At  length,  as  by  some  unseen  Hand  imprest, 

It  sought  with  trembling  energy  —  the  West!* 

"Ah  no!"  he  cried,  and  calmed  his  anxious  brow,    "| 

"  111,  nor.  the  signs  of  ill,  'tis  thine  to  show ; 

Thine  but  to  lead  me  where  I  wished  to  go ! "  J 

COLUMBUS  erred  not.     In  that  awful  hour, 
Sent  forth  to  save,  and  girt  with  God-like  power, 
And  glorious  as  the  regent  of  the  sun,f 
An  Angel  came !     He  spoke,  and  it  was  done ! 
He  spoke,  and,  at  his  call,  a  mighty  Wind, 
Not  like  the  fitful  blast,  with  fury  blind, 


*  Herrera,  dec.  I.  lib.  i.  c.  9.  f  Rev.  xix,  17. 

15* 


174  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

But  deep,  majestic,  in  its  destined  course, 
Sprung  with  unerring,  unrelenting  force, 
From  the  bright  East.     Tides  duly  ebbed  and  flowed; 
Stars  rose  and  set ;  and  new  horizons  glowed ; 
Yet  still  it  blew !     As  with  primeval  sway 
Still  did  its  ample  spirit,  night  and  day, 
Move  on  the  waters !  —  All,  resigned  to  Fate, 
Folded  their  arms  and  sate;  and  seemed  to  wait 
Some  sudden  change ;  and  sought,  in  chill  suspense, 
New  spheres  of  being,  and  new  modes  of  sense ; 
As  men  departing,  though  not  doomed  to  die, 
And  midway  on  their  passage  to  eternity. 


CANTO  II. 

The  Voyage  continued. 

''WHAT  vast  foundations  in  the  Abyss  are  there, 
As  of  a  former  world?     Is  it  not  where 
ATLANTIC  kings  their  barbarous  pomp  displayed  ; 
Sunk  into  darkness  with  the  realms  they  swayed, 
When  towers  and  temples,  thro'  the  closing  wave, 
A  glimmering  ray  of  ancient  splendour  gave  — 
And  we  shall  rest  with  them.  —  Or  are  we  thrown" 
(Each  gazed  on  each,  and  all  exclaimed  as  one) 
"  Where  things  familiar  cease  and  strange  begin, 
All  progress  barred  to  those  without,  within  ? 
—  Soon  is  the  doubt  resolved.^    Arise,  behold  — 
We  stop  to  stir  no  more  .  .  .  nor  will  the  tale  be  told." 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.      175 

The  pilot  smote  his  bieast ;  the  -watchman  cried 
"Land!"  and  his  voice  in  faltering  accents  died. 
At  once  the  fury  of  the  prow  was  quelled ; 
And  (whence  or  why  from  many  an  age  withheld) 
Shrieks,  not  of  men,  were  mingling  in  the  blast ; 
And  armed  shapes  of  god-like  stature  passed! 
Slowly  along  the  evening-sky  they  went, 
As  on  the  edge  of  some  vast  battlement; 
Helmet  and  shield,  and  spear  and  gonfalon, 
Streaming  a  baleful  light  that  was  not  of  the  sun ! 

Long  from  the  stern  the  great  Adventurer  gazed 
With  awe  not  fear;  then  high  his  hands  he  raised. 

"  Thou  All-supreme in  goodness  as  in  power, 

Who,  from  his  birth  to  this  eventful  hour, 

Hast  led  thy  servant  over  land  and  sea,* 

Confessing  Thee  in  all,  and  all  in  Thee, 

Oh  still"  —  He  spoke,  and  lo,  the  charm  accurst 

Fled  whence  it  came,  and  the  broad  barrier  burst ! 

A  vain  illusion !  (such  as  mocks  the  eyes 

Of  fearful  men,  when  mountains  round  them  rise 

From  less  than  nothing)  nothing  now  beheld, 

But  scattered  sedge  —  repelling,  and  repelled! 

And  once  again  that  valiant  company 
Right  onward  came,  ploughing  the  Unknown  Sea. 
Already  borne  beyond  the  range  of  thought, 
With  Light  divine,  with  Truth  immortal  fraught, 
From  world  to  world  their  steady  course  they  keep,  ~j 
Swift  as  the  winds  along  the  waters  sweep, 
'Mid  the  mute  nations  of  the  purple  deep.  J 

*  They  may  give  me  what  name  they  please.     I  am  servant  of  Him, 
&c.     Hist,  del  Almirante,  c.  2. 


176  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

—  And  now  the  sound  of  harpy-wings  they  hear; 

Now  less  and  less,  as  vanishing  in  fear ! 

And  see,  the  heavens  bow  down,  the  waters  rise, 

And,  rising,  shoot  in  columns  to  the  skies, 

That  stand  —  and  still,  when  they  proceed,  retire, 

As  in  the  Desert  burned  the  sacred  fire; 

Moving  in  silent  majesty,  till  Night 

Descends,  and  shuts  the  vision  from  their  sight. 


CANTO  III. 

An  Assembly  of  Evil  Spirits. 

Tuo'  changed  my  cloth  of  gold  for  amice  grey  — 

In  my  spring-time,  when  every  month  was  May, 

With  hawk  and  hound  I  coursed  away  the  hour, 

Or  sung  my  roundelay  in  lady's  bower. 

And  tho'  my  world  be  now  a  narrow  cell, 

(Renounced  for  ever  all  I  loved  so  well) 

Tho'  now  my  head  be  bald,  my  feet  be  bare, 

And  scarce  my  knees  sustain  my  book  of  prayer, 

Oh  I  was  there,  one  of  that  gallant  crew, 

And  saw  —  and  wondered  whence  his  Power  He  drew. 

Yet  little  thought,  tho'  by  his  side  I  stood, 

Of  his  great  Foes  in  earth  and  air  and  flood, 

Then  uninstructed.  —  But  my  sand  is  run, 

And  the  Night  coming and  my  Task  not  done !  -  - 

'Twas  in  the  deep,  immeasurable  cave 
Of  ANDES,  echoing  to  the  Southern  wave, 


THE     VOYAGE     OF    COLUMBUS.  177 

'Mid  pillars  of  Basalt,  the  -work  of  fire, 

That,  giant-like,  to  upper  day  aspire, 

'Twas  there  that  now,  as  wont  in  heaven  to  shine, 

Forms  of  angelic  mould  and  grace  divine 

Assembled.     All,  exiled  the  realms  of  rest, 

In  vain  the  sadness  of  their  souls  suppressed; 

Yet  of  their  glory  many  a  scattered  ray 

Shot  thro'  the  gathering  shadows  of  decay. 

Each  moved  a  God;  and  all,  as  Gods,  possessed 

One  half  the  globe ;  from  pole  to  pole  confessed ! 

Oh  could  I  now — but  how  in  mortal  verse  — 
Their  numbers,  their  heroic  deeds  rehearse ! 
These  in  dim  shrines  and  barbarous  symbols  reign, 
Where  PLATA  and  MAKAGXON  meet  the  Main. 
Those  the  wild  hunter  worships  as  he  roves, 
In  the  green  shade  of  CHILI'S  fragrant  groves ; 
Or  warrior  tribes  with  rites  of  blood  implore, 
Whose  night-fires  gleam  along  the  sullen  shore 
Of  HURON  or  ONTARIO,  inland  seas, 
What  time  the  song  of  death  is  in  the  breeze ! 

'Twas  now  in  dismal  pomp  and  order  due, 
While  the  vast  concave  flashed  with  lightnings  blue, 
On  shining  pavements  of  metallic  ore, 
That  many  an  age  the  fusing  sulphur  bore, 
They  held  high  council.     All  was  silence  round, 
When,  with  a  voice  most  sweet  yet  most  profound, 
A  sovereign  Spirit  burst  the  gates  of  night, 
And  from  his  wings  of  gold  shook  drops  of  liquid  light ! 
MERION,  commissioned  with  his  host  to  sweep 
From  age  to  age  the  melancholy  deep ! 
Chief  of  the  ZEMI,  whom  the  Isles  obeyed, 
By  Ocean  severed  from  a  world  of  shade. 

x 


178  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 


"Prepare,  again  prepare," 
Thus  o'er  the  soul  the  thrilling  accents  came, 
"  Thrones  to  resign  for  lakes  of  living  flame, 

And  triumph  for  despair. 
He,  on  whose  call  afflicting  thunders  wait, 

Has  willed  it ;  and  his  will  is  fate ! 
In  vain  the  legions,  emulous  to  save, 

Hung  in  the  tempest  o'er  the  troubled  main; 
Turned  each  presumptuous  prow  that  broke  the  wave, 

And  dashed  it  on  its  shores  again. 
All  is  fulfilled !     Behold,  in  close  array, 
What  mighty  banners  stream  in  the  bright  track  of  day  i 

II. 

"No  voice  as  erst  shall  in  the  desert  rise; 

Nor  ancient,  dread  solemnities 

With  scorn  of  death  the  trembling  tribes  inspire. 

Wreaths  for  the  Conqueror's  brow  the  victims  bind! 

Yet,  tho'  we  fled  yon  firmament  of  fire, 

Still  shall  we  fly,  all  hope  of  rule  resigned?" 


He  spoke ;  and  all  was  silence,  all  was  night ! 
Each  had  already  winged  his  formidable  flight. 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS.  179 

CANTO  IV. 

The  Voyage  continued. 

"An,  why  look  back,  tho'  all  is  left  behind? 
No  sounds  of  life  are  stirring  in  the  wind. — 
And  you,  ye  birds,  winging  your  passage  home, 
How  blest  we  are! — We  know  not  where  we  roam. 
We  go,"  they  cried,  "go  to  return  no  more;  ^ 

Nor  ours,  alas,  the  transport  to  explore  >• 

A  human  footstep  on  a  desert  shore!"  J 

—  Still,  as  beyond  this  mortal  life  impelled 
By  some  mysterious  energy,  He  held 
His  everlasting  course.     Still  self-possessed, 
High  on  the  deck  He  stood,  disdaining  rest ; 
(His  amber  chain  the  only  badge  he  bore, 
His  mantle  blue  such  as  his  fathers  wore) 
Fathomed,  with  searching  hand,  the  dark  profound, 
And  scattered  hope  and  glad  assurance  round; 
Tho',  like  some  strange  portentous  dream,  the  Past 
Still  hovered,  and  the  cloudless  sky  o'ercast. 

At  day-break  might  the  Caravels*  be  seen, 
Chasing  their  shadows  o'er  the  deep  serene; 
Their  burnished  prows  lashed  by  the  sparkling  tide, 
Their  green-cross  standards  waving  far  and  wide. 
And  now  once  more  to  better  thoughts  inclined, 
The  sea-man,  mounting,  clamoured  in  the  wind. 
The  soldier  told  his  tales  of  love  and  war ; 
The  courtier  sung  —  sung  to  his  gay  guitar. 

*  Light  vessels,  formerly  used  by  the  Spaniards  and  Portuguese. 


180  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

Round,  at  Primero,  sate  a  whiskered  band ; 
So  Fortune  smiled,  careless  of  sea  or  land ! 
LEON,  MONTALVAN,  (serving  side  by  side; 
Two  with  one  soul  —  and,  as  they  lived,  they  died) 
VASCO  the  brave,  thrice  found  among  the  slain, 
Thrice,  and  how  soon,  up  and  in  arms  again, 
As  soon  to  wish  he  had  been  sought  in  vain ; 
Chained  down  in  FEZ,  beneath  the  bitter  thong, 
To  the  hard  bench  and  heavy  oar  so  long ! 
ALBERT  of  FLORENCE,  who,  at  twilight-time, 
In  my  rapt  ear  poured  DANTE'S  tragic  rhyme, 
Screened  by  the  sail  as  near  the  mast  we  lay, 
Our  nights  illumined  by  the  ocean-spray ; 
And  MANFRED,  who  espoused  with  jewelled  ring 
Young  ISABEL,  then  left  her  sorrowing : 
LERMA  'the  generous,'  A  VILA  'the  proud;' 
VELASQUEZ,  GARCIA,  thro'  the  echoing  crowd 
Traced  by  their  mirth  —  from  EBRO'S  classic  shore, 
From  golden  TAJO,  to  return  no  more ! 


CANTO  V. 

The  Voyage  continui  i. 


Yet  who  but  He  undaunted  could  explore 
A  world  of  waves,  a  sea  without  a  shore, 
Trackless  and  vast  and  wild  as  that  revealed 
When  round  the  Ark  the  birds  of  tempest  wheeled; 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.      181 

When  all  was  still  in  the  destroying  hour  — 

No  sign  of  man !  no  vestige  of  his  power ! 

One  at  the  stern  before  the  hour-glass  stood, 

As  'twere  to  count  the  sands;  one  o'er  the  flood 

Gazed  for  St.  Elmo ;  *  while  another  cried 

"Once  more  good  morrow!"  and  sate  down  and  sighed. 

Day,  when  it  came,  came  only  with  its  light. 

Though  long  invoked,  'twas  sadder  than  the  night ! 

Look  where  He  would,  for  ever  as  He  turned, 

He  met  the  eye  of  one  that  inly  mourned. 

Then  sunk  his  generous  spirit,  and  He  wept. 
The  friend,  the  father  rose ;  the  hero  slept. 
PALOS,  thy  port,  with  many  a  pang  resigned, 
Filled  with  its  busy  scenes  his  lonely  mind; 
The  solemn  march,  the  vows  in  concert  given, 
The  bended  knees  and  lifted  hands  to  heaven, 
The  incensed  rites  and  choral  harmonies, 
The  Guardian's  blessings  mingled  with  his  sighs  ; 
While  his  dear  boys  —  ah,  on  his  neck  they  hung, 
And  long  at  parting  to  his  garments  clung. f 

Oft  in  the  silent  night-watch  doubt  and  fear 
Broke  in  uncertain  murmurs  on  his  ear. 
Oft  the  stern  Catalan,  at  noon  of  day, 
Muttered  dark  threats,  and  lingered  to  obey; 
Tho'  that  brave  Youth  —  he,  whom  his  courser  bore  ~| 
Right  thro'  the  midst,  when,  fetlock-deep  in  gore,      > 
The  great  GONZALO  battled  with  the  Moor,  J 

*  A  luminous  appearance  of  good  omen. 

t  His  public  procession  to  the  convent  of  La  Rabicla  on  the  day 
before  he  set  sail.  It  was  there  that  his  sons  had  received  their 
education ;  and  he  himself  appears  to  have  passed  some  time  there,  the 
venerable  Guardian,  Juan  Perez  de  Marchena,  being  his  zealous  and 
affectionate  friend. —  The  ceremonies  of  his  departure  and  return  are 
rcpres;  nted  in  many  of  the  fresco-paintings  in  the  palaces  of  Genoa. 

16 


182  THE    VOYAGE    OF     COLUMBUS. 

(What  time  the  ALHAMBRA  shook — soon  to  unfold    -j 

Its  sacred  courts,  and  fountains  yet  untold, 

Its  holy  texts  and  arabesques  of  gold)  J 

Tho'  ROLDAN,  sleep  and  death  to  him  alike, 

Grasped  his  good  sword  and  half  unsheathed  to  strike. 

"Oh  horn  to  wander  with  your  flocks,"  he  cried, 

"And  hask  and  dream  along  the  mountain-side; 

To  urge  your  mules,  tinkling  from  hill  to  hill; 

Or  at  the  vintage-feast  to  drink  your  fill, 

And  strike  your  castanets,  with  gipsy-maid 

Dancing  Fandangos  in  the  chestnut  shade  — 

Come  on,"  he  cried,  and  threw  his  glove  in  scorn, 

"Not  this  your  wonted  pledge,  the  brimming  horn. 

Valiant  in  peace  !     Adventurous  at  home ! 

Oh,  had  ye  vowed  with  pilgrim-staff  to  roam ; 

Or  with  banditti  sought  the  sheltering  wood, 

Where  mouldering  crosses  mark  the  scene  of  blood! — " 

He  said,  he  drew ;  then,  at  his  Master's  frown, 

Sullenly  sheathed,  plunging  the  weapon  down. 


CANTO  VI. 

The  flight  of  an  Angel  of  Darkness. 


WAR  and  the  Great  in  War  let  others  sing, 
Havoc  and  spoil,  and  tears  and  triumphing; 
The  morning-march  that  flashes  to  the  sun, 
The  feast  of  vultures  when  the  day  is  done ; 
And  the  strange  tale  of  many  slain  for  one ! 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLtMBTJS.  183 

I  sing  a  Man,  amid  his  sufferings  here, 

Who  watched  and  served  in  humbleness  and  fear; 

Gentle  to  others,  to  himself  severe. 

Still  unsubdued  by  Danger's  varying  form, 
Still,  as  unconscious  of  the  coming  storm, 
He  looked  elate;  and,  with  his  wonted  smile, 
On  the  great  Ordnance  leaning,  would  beguile 
The  hour  with  talk.     His  beard,  his  mien  sublime,    -> 
Shadowed  by  Age — by  Age  before  the  time,* 
From  many  a  sorrow  borne  in  many  a  clime,  J 

Moved  every  heart.     And  now  in  opener  skies 
Stars  yet  unnamed  of  purer  radiance  rise ! 
Stars,  milder  suns,  that  love  a  shade  to  cast, 
And  on  the  bright  wave  fling  the  trembling  mast ! 
Another  firmament !  the  orbs  that  roll, 
Singly  or  clustering,  round  the  Southern  pole ! 
Not  yet  the  four  that  glorify  the  Night —  -j 

Ah,  how  forget  when  to  my  ravished  sight, 

The  Cross  shone  forth  in  everlasting  light !  J 

****** 

'Twas  the  mid  hour,  when  He,  whose  accents  dread 
Still  wandered  thro'  the  regions  of  the  dead, 
(MERION,  commissioned  with  his  host  to  sweep 
From  age  to  age  the  melancholy  deep) 
To  elude  the  seraph-guard  that  watched  for  man, 
And  mar,  as  erst,  the  Eternal's  perfect  plan, 
Rose  like  the  Condor,  and,  at  towering  height, 
In  pomp  of  plumage   sailed,  deepening   the    shades  of 

night. 

Roc  of  the  West !  to  him  all  empire  given ! 
Who  bears  Axalhua's  dragon-folds  to  heaven; 

*  Hist.  c.  3. 


184  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

His  flight  a  whirlwind,  and,  when  heard  afar, 
Like  thunder,  or  the  distant  din  of  war ! 

Mountains  and  seas  fled  backward  as  he  passed 
O'er  the  great  globe,  by  not  a  cloud  o'ercast ' 
From  the  ANTARCTIC,  from  the  Land  of  Fire* 
To  where  ALASCA'S  wintry  wilds  retire ; 
From  mines  of  gold,  and  giant-sons  of  earth, 
To  grots  of  ice,  and  tribes  of  pigmy  birth 
Who  freeze  alive,  nor,  dead,  in  dust  repose, 
High-hung  in  forests  to  the  casing  snows. 
****** 

Now  'mid  angelic  multitudes  he  flies, 
That  hourly  come  with  blessings  from  the  skies; 
Wings  the  blue  element,  and,  borne  sublime, 
Eyes  the  set  sun,  gilding  each  distant  clime ; 
Then,  like  a  meteor,  shooting  to  the  main, 
Melts  into  pure  intelligence  again. 


CANTO  VII. 
A  Mutiny  excited. 

WHAT  tho'  Despondence  reigned,  and  wild  Affright — • 
Stretched  in  the  midst,  and,  thro'  that  dismal  night 
By  his  white  plume  revealed  and  buskins  white,        ••« 
Slept  ROLDAN.     When  he  closed  his  gay  career, 
Hope  fled  for  ever,  and  with  Hope  fled  Fear. 

*  Tierra  del  Fuego. 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS.  185 

Blest  with  each  gift  indulgent  Fortune  sends, 
Birth  and  its  rights,  wealth  and  its  train  of  friends, 
Star-like  he  shone !     Now  beggared  and  alone, 
Danger  he  wooed,  and  claimed  her  for  his  own. 

O'er  him  a  Vampire  his  dark  wings  displayed. 
'Twas  MERION'S  self,  covering  with  dreadful  shade. 
He  came,  and,  couched  on  ROLDAN'S  ample  breast,    ~i 
Each  secret  pore  of  breathing  life  possessed,  > 

Fanning  the  sleep  that  seemed  his  final  rest;  J 

Then,  inly  gliding  like  a  subtle  flame, 
Thrice,  with  a  cry  that  thrilled  the  mortal  frame, 
Called  on  the  Spirit  within.     Disdaining  flight, 
Calmly  she  rose,  collecting  all  her  might.* 
Dire  was  the  dark  encounter !     Long  unquelled, 
Her  sacred  seat,  sovereign  and  pure,  she  held. 
At  length  the  great  Foe  binds  her  for  his  prize, 
And  awful,  as  in  death,  the  body  lies ! 

Not  long  to  slumber !     In  an  evil  hour 
Informed  and  lifted  by  the  unknown  Power, 
It  starts,  it  speaks!  "We  live,  we  breathe  no  more! 
The  fatal  wind  blows  on  the  dreary  shore ! 
On  yonder  cliffs  beckoning  their  fellow-prey, 
The  spectres  stalk,  and  murmur  at  delay  !f 
— -Yet  if  thou  canst  (not  for  myself  I  plead! 
Mine  but  to  follow  where  'tis  thine  to  lead) 
Oh  turn  and  save !     To  thee,  with  streaming  eyes, 
To  thee  each  widow  kneels,  each  orphan  cries ! 
Who  now,  condemned  the  lingering  hours  to  tell, 
Think  and  but  think  of  those  they  loved  so  well !" 

*  — magnum  si  peitore  possit 
Excussisse  deum. 
f  Euripides  in  Alcest.  v.  255 
16*  Y 


186  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

All  melt  in  tears !  but  what  caii  tears  avail  ? 
These  climb  the  mast,  and  shift  the  swelling  sail. 
These  snatch  the  helm ;  and  round  me  now  I  hear 
Smiting  of  hands,  out-cries  of  grief  and  fear,* 
(That  in  the  aisles  at  midnight  haunt  me  still, 
Turning  my  lonely  thoughts  from  good  to  ill) 
"Were  there  no  graves  —  none  in  our  land,"  they  cry, 
"That  thou  hast  brought  us  on  the  deep  to  die?" 

Silent  with  sorrow,  long  within  his  cloak 
His  face  he  muffled  —  then  the  HERO  spoke. 
"  Generous  and  brave !  when  God  himself  is  here, 
Why  shake  at  shadows  in  your  mid  career? 
He  can  suspend  the  laws  himself  designed, 
He  walks  the  waters,  and  the  winged  wind; 
Himself  your  guide !  and  yours  the  high  behest, 
To  lift  your  voice,  and  bid  a  world  be  blest ! 
And  can  you  shrink  ?  to  you,  to  you  consigned 
The  glorious  privilege  to  serve  mankind ! 
Oh  had  I  perished,  when  my  failing  frame 
Clung  to  the  shattered  oar  'mid  wrecks  of  flame  ! 
— Was  it  for  this  I  lingered  life  away  ! 
The  scorn  of  Folly,  and  of  Fraud  the  prey ; 
Bowed  down  my  mind,  the  gift  His  bounty  gave, 
At  courts  a  suitor,  and  to  slaves  a  slave? 
— Yet  in  His  name  whom  only  we  should  fear, 
('Tis  all,  all  I  shall  ask,  or  you  shall  hear), 
Grant  but  three  days."  —  He  spoke  not  uninspired; 
And  each  in  silence  to  his  watch  retired. 

*  Voci  alte  e  fioche,  e  suon  di  man  con  elle.  —  DANTE. 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS.  187 

At  length  among  us  came  an  unknown  Voice ! 
"  Go,  if  ye  will ;  and,  if  ye  can,  rejoice. 
Go,  with  unbidden  guests  the  banquet  share ; 
In  his  own  shape  shall  Death  receive  you  there." 


CANTO  VIII. 

Land  discovered. 

TWICE  in  the  zenith  blazed  the  orb  of  light ; 
No  shade,  all  sun,  insufferably  bright ! 
Then  the  long  line  found  rest — in  coral  groves 
Silent  and  dark,  where  the  sea-lion  roves : — 
And  all  on  deck,  kindling  to  life  again, 
Sent  forth  their  anxious  spirits  o'er  the  main, 

"  Oh  whence,  as  wafted  from  Elysium,  whence 
These  perfumes,  strangers  to  the  raptured  sense? 
These  boughs  of^gold,  and  fruits  of  heavenly  hue, 
Tinging  with  vermeil  light  the  billows  blue? 
And  (thrice,  thrice  blessed  is  the  eye  that  spied, 
The  hand  that  snatched  it  sparkling  in  the  tide) 
Whose  cunning  carved  this  vegetable  bowl,* 
Symbol  of  social  rites,  and  intercourse  of  soul?" 
Such  to  their  grateful  ear  the  gush  of  springs, 
Who  course  the  ostrich,  as  away  she  wings; 
Sons  of  the  desert !  who  delight  to  dwell 
'Mid  kneeling  camels  round  the  sacred  well; 
Who,  ere  the  terrors  of  his  pomp  be  passed, 
Fall  to  the  demon  in  the  redd'ning  blast,  f 


*  Ex  ligno  lucido  confectum,  et  arte  mira  laboratum.     P.  Martyr. 
dec.  i.  5.  f  The  Simoom. 


188  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

The  sails  were  furled;  with  many  a  melting  close, 
Solemn  and  slow  the  evening-anthem  rose, 
Rose  to  the  Virgin.     'Twas  the  hour  of  day, 
When  setting  suns  o'er  summer-seas  display 
A  path  of  glory,  opening  in  the  west 
To  golden  climes,  and  islands  of  the  blest; 
And  human  voices,  on  the  silent  air, 
Went  o'er  the  waves  in  songs  of  gladness  there ! 

Chosen  of  men !     'Twas  thine,  at  noon  of  night, 
First  from  the  prow  to  hail  the  glimmering  light: 
(Emblem  of  Truth  divine,  whose  secret  ray 
Enters  the  soul  and  makes  the  darkness  day !) 
"PEDRO!  RODRIGO  !  there,  methought,  it  shone! 
There  —  in  the  west!  and  now,  alas,  'tis  gone!  — 
'Twas  all  a  dream !  we  gaze  and  gaze  in  vain ! 
—  But  mark  and  speak  not,  there  it  comes  again ! 
It  moves! — what  form  unseen,  what  being  there 
With  torch-like  lustre  fires  the  murky  air  ? 
His  instincts,  passions,  say  hoAV  like  our  own? 
Oh !  when  will  day  reveal  a  world  unknown  ?" 


CANTO   IX. 

The  New  World. 


LONG  on  the  wave  the  morning  mists  reposed, 
Then  broke  —  and,  melting  into  light,  disclosed 
Half-circling  hills,  whose  everlasting  woods 
Sweep  with  their  sable  skirts  the  shadowy  floods 


*»•'•  1 

'  Chosen  of  men'  'Twas  $ime  at  noon  of  niflit, 
Fust  from  ttur  prow  to  hail  ;ke  glir:naeTin^  lig>i 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.      189 

And  say,  when  all,  to  holy  transport  given, 

Embraced  and  wept  as  at  the  gates  of  Heaven, 

When  one  and  all  of  us,  repentant,  ran, 

And,  on  our  faces,  blessed  the  wondrous  Man ; 

Say,  was  I  then  deceived,  or  from  the  skies 

Burst  on  my  ear  seraphic  harmonies? 

"  Glory  to  God ! "  unnumbered  voices  sung, 

"  Glory  to  God ! "  the  vales  and  mountains  rung, 

Voices  that  hailed  Creation's  primal  morn, 

And  to  the  Shepherds  sung  a  Saviour  born. 

Slowly,  bare-headed,  through  the  surf  we  bore 
The  sacred  cross,  and,  kneeling,  kissed  the  shore. 
But  what  a  scene  was  there !     Nymphs  of  romance, 
Youths  graceful  as  the  Faun,  with  eager  glance, 
Spring  from  the  glades,  and  down  the  alleys  peep, 
Then  headlong  rush,  bounding  from  steep  to  steep, 
And  clap  their  hands,  exclaiming  as  they  run, 
"Come  and  behold  the  children  of  the  Sun!" 
When  hark,  a  signal  shot !     The  voice,  it  came 
Over  the  sea  in  darkness  and  in  flame ! 
They  saw,  they  heard;  and  up  the  highest  hill, 
As  in  a  picture,  all  at  once  were  still ! 
Creatures  so  fair,  in  garments  strangely  wrought, 
From  citadels,  with  Heaven's  own  thunder  fraught, 
Checked  their  light  footsteps  —  statue-like  they  stood, 
As  worshipped  forms,  the  Genii  of  the  Wood ! 

At  length  the  spell  dissolves !     The  warrior's  lance 
Rings  on  the  tortoise  with  wild  dissonance ! 
And  see,  the  regal  plumes,  the  couch  of  state ! 
Still  where  it  moves  the  wise  in  council  wait ! 
See  now  borne  forth  the  monstrous  mask  of  gold, 
And  ebon  chair  of  many  a  serpent-fold; 


190  THE    VOYAGE    OP    COLUMBUS. 

These  now  exchanged  for  gifts  that  thrice  surpass 
The  wondrous  ring,  the  lamp,  and  horse  of  brass. 
What  long-drawn  tube  transports  the  gazer  home, 
Kindling  with  stars  at  noon  the  ethereal  dome  ? 
'Tis  here  :  and  here  circles  of  solid  light 
Charm  with  another  self  the  cheated  sight; 
As  man  to  man  another  self  disclose, 
That  now  with  terror  starts,  with  triumph  glows ! 


CANTO  X. 

Cora — Luxuriant  Vegetation — the  Humming-bird — the  Fountain 
of  Youth. 


THEN  CORA  came,  the  youngest  of  her  race, 

And  in  her  hands  she  hid  her  lovely  face ; 

Yet  oft  by  stealth  a  timid  glance  she  cast,  •) 

And  now  with  playful  step  the  Mirror  passed, 

Each  bright  reflection  brighter  than  the  last!  J 

And  oft  behind  it  flew,  and  oft  before; 

The  more  she  searched,  pleased  and  perplexed  the  more ! 

And  look'd  and  laugh'd,  and  blush'd  with  quick  surprise ! 

Her  lips  all  mirth,  all  ecstasy  her  eyes ! 

But  soon  the  telescope  attracts  her  view; 
And  lo,  her  lover  in  his  light  canoe 
Rocking,  at  noon-tide,  on  the  silent  sea, 
Before  her  lies!     It  cannot,  cannot  be. 
Late  as  he  left  the  shore,  she  lingered  there, 
Till,  less  and  less,  he  melted  into  air !  — 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.      191 

Sigh  after  sigh  steals  from  her  gentle  frame, 
And  say — that  murmur  —  was  it  not  his  name? 
She  turns,  and  thinks;  and,  lost  in  wild  amaze, 
Gazes  again,  and  could  for  ever  gaze! 

Nor  can  thy  flute,  ALONSO,  now  excite 
As  in  VALENCIA,  when,  with  fond  delight, 
FRANCISCA,  waking,  to  the  lattice  flew, 
So  soon  to  love,  and  to  be  wretched  too ! 
Hers  thro'  a  convent-grate  to  send  her  last  adieu. 
— Yet  who  now  comes  uncalled ;  and  round  and  round, 
And  near  and  nearer  flutters  to  the  sound; 
Then  stirs  not,  breathes  not  —  on  enchanted  ground? 
Who  now  lets  fall  the  flowers  she  culled  to  wear 
When  he,  who  promised,  should  at  eve  be  there ; 
And  faintly  smiles,  and  hangs  her  head  aside 
The  tear  that  glistens  on  her  cheek  to  hide ! 
Ah,  who  but  CORA?  —  till  inspired,  possessed, 
At  once  she  springs,  and  clasps  it  to  her  breast ! 

Soon  from  the  bay  the  mingling  crowd  ascends, 
Kindred  first  met !  by  sacred  instinct  Friends ! 
Thro'  citron-groves,  and  fields  of  yellow  maize, 
Thro'    plantain-walks  where  not  a  sun-beam  plays. 
Here  blue  savannas  fade  into  the  sky, 
There  forests  frown  in  midnight  majesty; 
Ceiba,  and  Indian  fig,  and  plane  sublime, 
Nature's  first-born,  and  reverenced  by  Time ! 
There  sits  the  bird  that  speaks !  there,  quivering,  rise 
Wings  that  reflect  the  glow  of  evening  skies ! 
Half  bird,  half  fly,  the  fairy  king  x)f  flowers 
Reigns  there,  and  revels  thro'  the  fragrant  hours; 
Gem  full  of  life,  and  joy,  and  song  divine, 
Soon  in  the  virgin's  graceful  ear  to  shine. 


192  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

'Twas  he  that  sung,  if  ancient  Fame  speaks  truth, 
"  Come !  follow,  follow  to  the  Fount  of  Youth ! 
I  quaff  the  ambrosial  mists  that  round  it  rise, 
Dissolved  and  lost  in  dreams  of  Paradise ! " 
For  there  called  forth,  to  bless  a  happier  hour, 
It  met  the  sun  in  many  a  rainbow-shower ! 
Murmuring  delight,  its  living  waters  rolled 
'Mid  branching  palms  and  amaranths  of  gold ! 


CANTO  XI. 

Evening — a  Banquet — the  Ghost  of  Cazziva. 

THE  tamarind  closed  her  leaves ;  the  marmoset 
Dreamed  on  his  bough,  and  played  the  mimic  yet. 
Fresh  from  the  lake  the  breeze  of  twilight  blew, 
And  vast  and  deep  the  mountain-shadows  grew; 
When  many  a  fire-fly,  shooting  thro'  the  glade, 
Spangled  the  locks  of  many  a  lovely  maid, 
Who  now  danced  forth  to  strew  our  path  with  flowers, 
And  hymn  our  welcome  to  celestial  bowers.* 

There  odorous  lamps  adorned  the  festal  rite, 
And  guavas  blushed  as  in  the  vales  of  light. 
There  silent  sate  many  an  unbidden  Guest, 
Whose  steadfast  looks  a  secret  dread  impressed ; 
Not  there  forgot  the  sacred  fruit  that  fed 
At  nightly  feasts  the  Spirits  of  the  Dead. 

*  P.  Martyr,  dec.  i.  6. 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS.  193 

Mingling  in  scenes  that  mirth  to  mortals  give, 
But  by  their  sadness  known  from  those  that  live. 

There  met,  as  erst,  within  the  wonted  grove, 
Unmarried  girls  and  youths  that  died  for  love ! 
Sons  now  beheld  their  ancient  sires  again ; 
And  sires,  alas,  their  sons  in  battle  slain ! 

But  whence  that  sigh  ?    'Twas  from  a  heart  that  broke ! 
And  whence  that  voice  ?     As  from  the  grave  it  spoke  ! 
And  who,  as  unresolved  the  feast  to  share, 
Sits  half-withdrawn  in  faded  splendour  there? 
'Tis  he  of  yore,  the  warrior  and  the  sage, 
Whose  lips  have  moved  in  prayer  from  age  to  age ; 
Whose  eyes,  that  wandered  as  in  search  before, 
Now  on  COLUMBUS  fixed  —  to  search  no  more! 
CAZZIVA,  gifted  in  his  day  to  know 
The  gathering  signs  of  a  long  night  of  woe ; 
Gifted  by  Those  who  give  but  to  enslave; 
No  rest  in  death,  no  refuge  in  the  grave! 
— With  sudden  spring  as  at  the  shout  of  war,  •» 

He  flies !  and,  turning  in  his  flight,  from  far  > 

Glares  thro'  the  gloom  like  some  portentous  star !     J 
Unseen,  unheard  !    Hence,  Minister  of  111 !  •» 

Hence,  'tis  not  yet  the  hour !  tho'  come  it  will !         > 
They  that  foretold — too  soon  shall  they  fulfil;  J 

When  forth  they  rush  as  with  the  torrent's  sweep, 
And  deeds  are  done  that  make  the  Angels  weep ! 
Hark,  o'er  the  busy  mead  the  shell  proclaims* 
Triumphs,  and  masques,  and  high  heroic  games. 
And  now  the  old  sit  round;  and  now  the  young 
Climb  the  green  boughs,  the  murmuring  doves  among. 

*  P.  Martyr,  dec.  iii.  c.  7. 

IT  z 


194  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMRUS. 

Who  claims  the  prize,  when  winged  feet  contend; 
When  twanging  bows  the  flaming  arrows  send?* 
Who  stands  self-centred  in  the  field  of  fame, 
And,  grappling,  flings  to  earth  a  giant's  frame  ? 
Whilst  all,  with  anxious  hearts  and  eager  eyes, 
Bend  as  he  bends,  and,  as  he  rises,  rise ! 
And  CORA'S  self,  in  pride  of  beauty  here, 
Trembles  with  grief  and  joy,  and  hope  and  fear ! 
(She  who,  the  fairest,  ever  flew  the  first, 
With  cup  of  balm  to  quench  his  burning  thirst; 
Knelt  at  his  head,  her  fan-leaf  in  her  hand, 
And  hummed  the  air  that  pleased  him,  while  she  fanned) 
How  blest  his  lot!  —  tho',  by  the  Muse  unsung, 
His  name  shall  perish,  when  his  knell  is  rung. 
That  night,  transported,  with  a  sigh  I  said, 
"  'Tis  all  a  dream  ! " — Now,  like  a  dream,  'tis  fled ; 
And  many  and  many  a  year  has  passed  away, 
And  I  alone  remain  to  watch  and  pray ! 
Yet  oft  in  darkness,  on  my  bed  of  straw, 
Oft  I  awake  and  think  on  what  I  saw ! 
The  groves,  the  birds,  the  youths,  the  nymphs  recall, 
And  CORA,  loveliest,  sweetest  of  them  all ! 


CANTO  XII. 
A  Vision. 

STILL  would  I  speak  of  Him  before  I  went, 
Who  among  us  a  life  of  sorrow  spent, 
And,  dying,  left  a  world  his  monument; 

*  Rochefort.  c.  xx. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.      195 

Still,  if  the  time  allowed  !     My  Hour  draws  near ;     •» 
But  He  will  prompt  me  when  I  faint  with  fear. 
Alas,  He  hears  me  not !  He  cannot  hear !           J 


Twice  the  Moon  filled  her  silver  urn  with  light. 
Then  from  the  Throne  an  Angel  winged  his  flight: 
He,  who  unfixed  the  compass,  and  assigned 
O'er  the  wild  waves  a    pathway  to  the  wind; 
Who,  while  approached  by  none  but  Spirits  pure,      "| 
Wrought,  in  his  progress  thro'  the  dread  obscure,       > 
Signs  like  the  ethereal  bow  —  that  shall  endure !         J 

As  he  descended  thro'  the  upper  air, 
Day  broke  on  day  as  God  himself  were  there! 
Before  the  great  Discoverer,  laid  to  rest, 
He  stood,  and  thus  his  secret  soul  addresssed: 
"  The  wind  recalls  thee ;  its  still  voice  obey. 
Millions  await  thy  coming;  hence,  away. 
To  thee  blest  tidings  of  great  joy  consigned, 
Another  Nature,  and  a  new  Mankind ! 
The  vain  to  dream,  the  wise  to  doubt  shall  cease ; 
Young  men  be  glad,  and  old  depart  in  peace !  * 
Hence !  tho'  assembling  in  the  fields  of  air, 
Now,  in  a  night  of  clouds,  thy  Foes  prepare 
To  rock  the  globe  with  elemental  wars, 
And  dash  the  floods  of  ocean  to  the  stars ; 
To  bid  the  meek  repine,  the  valiant  weep, 
And  Thee  restore  thy  Secret  to  the  Deep ! 

"  Not  then  to  leave  Thee !  to  their  vengeance  cast, 
Thy  heart  their  aliment,  their  dire  repast  !f 


*  P.  Martyr,  Epist.  133,  152. 

f  See  the  Eumenides  of  jEschylus,  v.  305,  &c. 


196      THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 

To  other  eyes  shall  MEXICO  unfold 

Her  feathered  tapestries,  and  roofs  of  gold. 

To  other  eyes,  from  distant  cliff  descried,  •» 

Shall  the  PACIFIC  roll  his  ample  tide;  \ 

There  destined  soon  rich  argosies  to  ride.  J 

Chains  thy  reward !  beyond  the  ATLANTIC  wave 

Hung  in  thy  chamber,  buried  in  thy  grave ! 

Thy  reverend  form  to  time  and  grief  a  prey, 

A  phantom  wandering  in  the  light  of  day ! 

"What  tho'  thy  grey  hairs  to  the  dust  descend, 
Their  scent  shall  track  thee,  track  thee  to  the  end;* 
Thy  sons  reproached  with  their  great  father's  fame, 
And  on  his  world  inscribed  another's  name ! 
That  world  a  prison-house,  full  of  sights  of  woe, 
Where  groans  burst  forth,  and  tears  in  torrents  flow ! 
These  gardens  of  the  sun,  sacred  to  song, 
By  dogs  of  carnage  howling  loud  and  long, 
Swept  —  till  the  voyager,  in  the  desert  air, 
Starts  back  to  hear  his  altered  accents  there ! 

"Not  thine  the  olive,  but  the  sword  to  bring, 
Not  peace,  but  war !     Yet  from  these  shores  shall  spring 
Peace  without  end;f  from  these,  with  blood  defiled, 
Spread  the  pure  spirit  of  thy  Master  mild  ! 
Here,  in  His  train,  shall  arts  and  arms  attend, 
Arts  to  adorn,  and  arms  but  to  defend. 
Assembling  here,  all  nations  shall  be  blest ; 
The  sad  be  comforted;  the  weary  rest; 
Untouched  shall  drop  the  fetters  from  the  slave; 
And  He  shall  rule  the  world  he  died  to  save! 

*  See  the  Eumenides  of  ^Eschylus,  v.  246. 

•f-  See  Washington's  farewell  address  to  his  fellow-citizens. 


THE    VOYAGE    OF,  COLUMBUS.  197 

"Hence,  and  rejoice.     The  glorious  work  is  done. 
A  spark  is  thrown  that  shall  eclipse  the  sun ! 
And,  tho'  bad  men  shall  long  thy  course  pursue, 
As  erst  the  ravening  brood  o'er  chaos  flew,* 
He,  whom  I  serve,  shall  vindicate  his  reign; 
The  spoiler  spoiled  of  all;  the  slayer  slain; 
The  tyrant's  self,  oppressing  and  opprest, 
'Mid  gems  and  gold  unenvied  and  unblest: 
While  to  the  starry  sphere  thy  name  shall  rise, 
(Not  there  unsung  thy  generous  enterprise !) 
Thine  in  all  hearts  to  dwell  —  by  Fame  enshrined, 
With  those,  the  Few,  that  live  but  for  Mankind; 
Thine  evermore,  transcendent  happiness ! 
World  beyond  world  to  visit  and  to  bless." 

ON  the  last  two  leaves,  and  written  in  another  hand, 
are  some  stanzas  in  the  romance  or  ballad  measure  of 
the  Spaniards.  The  subject  is  an  adventure  soon  related. 

Thy  lonely  watch-tower,  Larenille, 

Had  lost  the  western  sun; 

And  loud  and  long  from  hill  to  hill 

Echoed  the  evening-gun, 

When  Hernan,  rising  on  his  oar, 

Shot  like  an  arrow  from  the  shore. 

—  "Those  lights  are  on  St.  Mary's  Isle; 

They  glimmer  from  the  sacred  pile."f 

The  waves  were  rough;  the  hour  was  late, 

But  soon  across  the  Tinto  borne, 

*  Sec  Paradise  Lost.  X. 

•(•  The  convent  of  La  Rabida. 

17* 


198  THE    VOYAG.E    OF    COLUMBUS. 

Thrice  he  blew  the  signal-horn, 

He  blew  and  would  not  wait. 

Home  by  his  dangerous  path  he  went; 

Leaving,  in  rich  habiliment, 

Two  Strangers  at  the  Convent-gate. 

They  ascended  by  steps  hewn  out  in  the  rock ;  and, 
having  asked  for  admittance,  were  lodged  there. 

Brothers  in  arms  the  Guests  appeared; 
The  Youngest  with  a  Princely  grace ! . 
Short  and  sable  was  his  beard, 
Thoughtful  and  wan  his  face. 
His  velvet  cap  a  medal  bore, 
And  ermine  fringed  his  broidered  vest; 
And,  ever  sparkling  on  his  breast, 
An  image  of  St.  John  he  wore.* 

The  Eldest  had  a  rougher  aspect,  and  there  was  craft 
in  his  eye.  He  stood  a  little  behind  in  a  long  black 
mantle,  his  hand  resting  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword ;  and  his 
white  hat  and  white  shoes  glittered  in  the  moon-shine.t 

"Not  here  unwelcome,  tho'  unknown. 

Enter  and  rest!"  the  Friar  said. 

The  moon,  that  thro'  the  portal  shone, 

Shone  on  his  reverend  head. 

Thro'  many  a  court  and  gallery  dim 

Slowly  he  led,  the  burial-hymn 

*  See  Bernal  Diez,  c.  203  ;  and  also  a  well-known  portrait  of  Cortes, 
ascribed  to  Titian.  Cortes  was  now  in  the  43rd,  Pizarro  in  the  50th 
year  of  his  age. 

f  Augustin  Zarate,  lib.  iv.  c.  9. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.      199 

Swelling  from  the  distant  choir. 
But  now  the  holy  men  retire ; 
The  arched  cloisters  issuing  thro', 
In  long  long  order,  two  and  two. 

****** 
When  other  sounds  had  died  away, 
And  the  waves  were  heard  alone, 
They  entered,  tho'  unused  to  pray, 
Where  God  was  worshipped  night  and  day,  • 
And  the  dead  knelt  round  in  stone ; 
They  entered,  and  from  aisle  to  aisle 
Wandered  with  folded  arms  awhile, 
Where  on  his  altar-tomb  reclined 
The    crosiered  Abbot;  and  the  Knight 
In  harness  for  the  Christian  fight, 
His  hands  in  supplication  joined;  — 
Then  said  as  in  a  solemn  mood, 
"Now  stand  we  where  COLUMBUS  stood!" 

****** 

"Perez,*  thou  good  old  man,"  they  cried, 
"  And  art  thou  in  thy  place  of  rest  ?  — 
Tho'  in  the  western  world  His  grave,  f 
That  other  world,  the  gift  He  gave,  J 
Would  ye  were  sleeping  side  by  side ! 
Of  all  his  friends  He  loved  thee  best." 


*  Late  Superior  of  the  House, 
f  In  the  chancel  of  the  cathedral  of  St.  Domingo. 
J  The  words  of  the  epitaph.    "A  Castilia  y  a  Leon  nuevo  Mundo  die 
Colon." 


200  THE    VOYAGE    OF     COLUMBUS, 

The  supper  in  the  chamber  done, 
Much  of  a  Southern  Sea  they  spake, 
And  of  that  glorious  city*  won 
Near  the  setting  of  the  Sun, 
Throned  in  a  silver  lake  ; 
Of  seven  kings  in  chains  of  goldf 
And  deeds  of  death  by  tongue  untold, 
Deeds  such  as  breathed  in  secret  there 
Had  shaken  the  Confession-chair ! 


The  Eldest  swore  by  our  Lady,|  the  Youngest  by  his 
conscience  ;§  while  the  Franciscan,  sitting  by  in  his  grey 
habit,  turned  away  and  crossed  himself  again  and  again. 
"  Here  is  a  little  book,"  said  he  at  last,  "  the  work  of  him 
in  his  shroud  below.  It  tells  of  things  you  have  men- 
tioned; and,  were  Cortez  and  Pizarro  here,  it  might 
perhaps  make  them  reflect  for  a  moment."  The  Youngest 
smiled  as  he  took  it  into  his  hand.  He  read  it  aloud  to 
his  companion  with  an  unfaltering  voice ;  but,  when  he 
laid  it  down,  a  silence  ensued ;  nor  was  he  seen  to  smile 
again  that  night.||  "The  curse  is  heavy,"  said  he  at 
parting,  "but  Cortes  may  live  to  disappoint  it."  —  "Ay, 
and  Pizarro  too ! " 

*  Mexico. 

•}•  Afterwards  the  arms  of  Cortez  and  his  descendants. 

J  Fernandez,  lib.  ii.  c.  63.  \  B.  Diaz,  c.  203. 

||  "After  the  death  of  Guatimotzin,"  says  B.  Diaz,  "he  became 
gloomy  and  restless ;  rising  continually  from  his  bed,  and  wandering 
about  in  the  dark."  —  "Nothing  prospered  with  him;  and  it  was 
ascribed  to  the  curses  he  was  loaded  with." 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.      201 

*„.*  A  circumstance,  recorded  by  Herrera,  renders  this 
visit  not  improbable.  "  In  May,  1528,  Cortes  arrived 
unexpectedly  at  Palos ;  and,  soon  after  he  had  landed,  he 
and  Pizarro  met  and  rejoiced;  and  it  was  remarkable 
that  they  should  meet,  as  they  were  two  of  the  most  re- 
nowned men  in  the  world."  B.  Diaz  makes  no  mention 
of  the  interview;  but,  relating  an  occurrence  thai  took 
place  at  this  time  in  Palos,  says,  "  that  Cortes  was  now 
absent  at  Nuestra  Senora  de  la  Rubida."  The  convent 
is  within  half  a  league  of  the  town. 


in  tljB  Anting?  nf  <£n Iambus. 


P.  172, 1.  15. 
.     .     .     descried  of  yore, 
IN  him  was  fulfilled  the  ancient  prophecy, 

venient  annis 

Secula  seris,  quibus  Oceanus 
Vincula  rerum  laxet,  &c. 

SENECA,  in  Medea,  v.  374. 

Which  Tasso  has  imitated  in  his  Gerusalemme  Liberata. 
Tempo  verra,  che  flan  d'Ercole  i  segni 
Favola,  vile,  &c.  c.  xv,  30. 

The  Poem  opens  on  Friday  the  14th  of  September,  1492. 

P.  172,  1.  30. 

.     .     .     the  great  Commander 

In  the  original,  El  Almirante.  "  In  Spanish  America,"  says  M.  de 
Humboldt,  "  when  El  Almirante  is  pronounced  without  the  addition  of 
a  name,  that  of  Columbus  is  understood ;  as,  from  the  lips  of  a  Mexican, 
El  Marchese  signifies  Cortes :"  and  as  among  the  Florentines,  II  Segre- 
tario  has  always  signified  Machiavel. 

P.  173,  1.  6. 

"  Thee  hath  it  pleased — Thy  mil  be  done!"  he  said, 
"  It  has  pleased  our  Lord  to  grant  me  faith  and  assurance  for  this 
enterprise  —  He  has  opened  my  understanding,  and  made   me   most 
willing  to  go."     See  his  Life  by  his  son,  Ferd.  Columbus,  entitled, 
Hist,  del  Almirante  Don  Christoval  Colon,  c.  4  &  37. 

His  Will  begins  thus.  "  In  the  name  of  the  most  holy  Trinity,  who 
inspired  me  with  the  idea,  and  who  afterwards  made  it  clear  to  me, 
that  by  traversing  the  Ocean  wcstwardly,"  &c. 

(202) 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.      203 

P.  173,  1.  12. 

Whose  voice  is  truth,  whose  wisdom  is  from  heaven, 
The  compass  might  well  be  an  object  of  superstition.     A  belief  is 
said  to  prevail  even  at  this  day,  that  it  will  refuse  to  traverse  when 
there  is  a  dead  body  on  board. 

P.  173, 1.  24. 
COLUMBUS  erred  not, 

When  these  regions  were  to  be  illuminated,  says  Acosta,  cum  divino 
concilio  decretum  esset,  prospectum  etiam  divinitus  est,  ut  tarn  longi 
itineris  dux  certus  hominibus  praeberetur.  —  De  Natura  Novi  Orbis. 

A  romantic  circumstance  is  related  of  some  early  navigator  in  the 
Histoire  Ge"n.  des  Voyages,  I.  i.  2.  "  On  trouva  dans  1'ile  de  Cuervo 
une  statue  e"questre,  couverte  d'un  manteau,  mais  la  tete  nue,  qui 
tenoit  de  la  main  gauche  la  bride  du  cheval,  et  qui  montroit  1' Occident 
de  la  main  droite.  II  y  avoit  sur  le  bas  d'un  roc  quelques  lettres 
gravies,  qui  ne  furent  point  entendues ;  mais  il  parut  clairment  que  le 
signe  de  la  main  regardoit  I'Amerique." 

P.  m,  1.  29. 

He  spoke,  and,  at  his  call,  a  mighty  Wind, 

The  more  Christian  opinion  is,  that  God,  with  eyes  of  compassion, 
as  It  were,  looking  down  from  heaven,  called  forth  those  winds  of  mercy, 
whereby  this  new  world  received  the  hope  of  salvation. — Preambles  to 
the  Decades  of  the  Ocean. 

P.  174, 1.  8. 

Folded  their  arms,  and  sate  ; 

To  return  was  deemed  impossible,  as  it  blew  always  from  home.— 
Hist,  del  Almirante,  c.  19.  Nos  pavidi — at  pater  Anchises — laetus. 

P.  174,  1.  20. 

What  vast  foundations  in  the  Abyss  are  there, 
Tasso  employs  preternatural  agents  on  a  similar  occasion, 

Trapassa,  et  ecco  in  quel  silvestre  loco 

Sorge  improvisa  cilta  del  foco.  xiii.  33. 


204  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

Gli  incanti  d'Ismeno,  che  ingannano  con  delusioni,  altro  non  signifi- 
cano,  che  la  falsita  delle  ragioni,  et  delle  persuasioni,  la  qual  si  genera 
nella  moltitudine,  et  varieta  de'  pareri,  et  de'  discorsi  humani. 

P.  174,  1.  18. 

ATLANTIC  kings  their  barbarous  pomp  displayed; 
See  Plato's  Timaeus ;  where  mention  is  made  of  mighty  kingdoms, 
•which,  in  a  day  and  a  night,  had  disappeared  in  the  Atlantic,  rendering 
its  waters  unnavigable. 

Si  quseras  Helicen  et  Burin,  Achaidas  urbes, 
Invenies  sub  aquis. 

At  the  destruction  of  Callao,  in  1747,  no  more  than  one  of  all  the 
inhabitants  escaped ;  and  he,  by  a  providence  the  most  extraordinary. 
This  man  was  on  the  fort  that  overlooked  the  harbour,  going  to  strike  i , 
the  flag,  when  he  saw  the  sea  retire  to  a  considerable  distance,  and  then, 
swelling  mountain-high,  return  with  great  violence.  The  people  ran 
from  their  houses  in  terror  and  confusion ;  he  heard  a  cry  of  Miserere 
rise  from  all  parts  of  the  city ;  and  immediately  all  was  silent ;  the  sea 
had  entirely  overwhelmed  it,  and  buried  it  forever  in  its  bosom ;  but 
the  same  wave  that  destroyed  it,  drove  a  little  boat  by  the  place  where 
he  stood,  into  which  he  threw  himself  and  was  saved. 

P.  174,  1.  32. 

We  stop  to  stir  no  more    .     .     . 

The  description  of  a  submarine  forest  is  here  omitted  by  the  trans- 
lator. 

League  beyond  league  gigantic  foliage  spread, 

Shadowing  old  Ocean  on  his  rocky  bed ; 

The  lofty  summits  of  resounding  woods, 

That  grasped  the  depths,  nnd  grappled  with  the  floods ; 

Such  as  had  climbed  the  mountain's  azure  height, 

When  forth  he  came  and  reassumed  his  right. 

P.  175,  1.  2. 

"Land,"  and  his  voice  in  faltering  accents  died. 

Historians  are  not  silent  on  the  subject.  The  sailors,  according  to 
Herrera,  saw  the  signs  of  an  inundated  country  (tierras  anegadas) ; 
and  it  was  the  general  expectation  that  they  should  end  their  lives 
there,  as  others  had  done  in  the  frozen  sea,  "where  St.  Amaro  suffers 
no  ship  to  stir  backward  or  forward." 

Hist,  del  Almirante,  c.  19. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.      205 

P.  175,  1.  4. 

And  (whence  or  why  from  many  an  age  withheld) 
The  author  seems  to  have  anticipated  his  long  slumber  in  the  library 
of  the  Fathers. 

P.  175, 1.  27. 

From  world  to  world  their  steady  course  they  keep,  \ 
As  St.  Christopher  carried  Christ  over  the  deep  waters,  so  Columbus 
•went  over  safe,  himself  and  his  company. —  Hist.  c.  1. 

P.  176,  1.  4. 

And,  rising,  shoot  in  columns  to  the  skies, 

Water-spouts.  See  Edwards's  History  of  the  West  Indies,  I.  12. 
Note. 

P.  176, 1.  16. 

Tho'  changed  my  cloth  of  gold  for  amice  grey — 
Many  of  the  first  discoverers  ended  their  days  in  a  hermitage  or 
*  cloister. 

P.  176,  1.  81. 

'Twas  in  the  deep,  immeasurable  cave 
Of  ANDES, 

Vast  indeed  must  be  those  dismal  regions,  if  it  be  true,  as  conjec- 
tured (Kircher.  Mund.  Subt.  I.  202)  that  Etna,  in  her  eruptions,  has 
discharged  twenty  times  her  original  bulk.  Well  might  she  be  called 
by  Euripides  (Troades  v.  222)  the  Mother  of  Mountains;  yet  Etna  her- 
self is  but  "a  mere  firework,  when  compared  to  the  burning  summits 
of  the  Andes." 

P.  177,  1.  10. 
One  half  the  globe;  from  pole  to  pole  confessed! 

Gods,  yet  confessed  later. —  MILTON. Us  ne  laissent  pas  d'en  etre 

les  esclaves,  et  de  les  honorer  plus  que  le  grand  Esprit,  qui  de  sa  na- 
ture est  bon. —  LAFITAU. 

18 


206  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

P.  177,  1.  14. 

Where  PLATA  and  MARAGNOS  meet  the  Main. 

Rivera  of  South  America.  Their  collision  with  the  tide  has  the 
effect  of  a  tempest. 

P.  177, 1.  19. 

*  Of  HURON  or  ONTARIO,  inland  seas, 

Lakes  of  North  America.  Huron  is  above  a  thousand  miles  in  cir- 
cumference. Ontario  receives  the  waters  of  the  Niagara,  so  famous  for 
its  falls ;  and  discharges  itself  into  the  Atlantic  by  the  river  St.  Law- 
rence. 

P.  177,  1.  32. 

By  Ocean  severed  from  a  world  of  shade. 

La  plupart  de  ces  iles  ne  sont  en  effet  que  des  pointes  de  montagnes  : 
et  la  mer,  qui  est  au-dela,  est  nne  vraie  mer  Me'diterrane'e. — BTJFFON. 

P.  178,  1.  10. 

Hung  in  the  tempest  o'er  the  troubled  main  ; 

The  dominion  of  a  bad  angel  over  an  unknown  sea,  infestandole  con 
torbellinos  y  tempestade&,  and  his  flight  before  a  Christian  hero,  are  de- 
scribed in  glowing  language  by  Ovalle. — Hist,  de  Chile,  IV.  8. 

P.  178,  1.  16. 

No  voice  as  erst  shall  in  the  desert  rise  ; 

Alluding  to  the  oracles  of  the  Islanders,  so  soon  to  become  silent : 
and  particularly  to  a  prophecy,  delivered  down  from  their  ancestors, 
and  sung  with  loud  lamentations  (Petr.  Martyr,  dec.  2.  lib.  7)  at  their 
solemn  festivals  (Herrera,  I.  iii.  4)  that  the  country  would  be  laid 
waste  on  the  arrival  of  strangers,  completely  clad,  from  a  region  near 
the  rising  of  the  sun.  Ibid.  II.  5.  2.  It  is  said  that  Cazziva,  a  great 
Cacique,  after  long  fasting  and  many  ablutions,  had  an  interview  with 
one  of  the  Zemi,  who  announced  to  him  this  terrible  event  (Hist.  c.  62) 
as  the  oracles  of  Latona,  according  to  Herodotus  (II.  152)  predicted 
the  overthrow  of  eleven  kings  in  Egypt,  on  the  appearance  of  men  of 
orass,  risen  out  of  the  sea. 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS.  207 

Nor  did  this  prophecy  exist  among  the  islanders  alone.  It  influenced 
the  councils  of  Montezuma,  and  extended  almost  imiversally  over  the 
forests  of  America.  Cortes.  Herrera.  Gomara.  "  The  demons,  whom 
they  worshipped,"  says  Acosta,  "in  this  instance  told  them  the  truth." 

P.  178,  1.  23. 

He  spoke;  and  all  was  siknce,  all  was  night! 

These  scattered  fragments  may  be  compared  to  shreds  of  old  arras, 
or  reflections  from  a  river  broken  and  confused  by  the  oar ;  and  now 
and  then  perhaps  the  imagination  of  the  reader  may  supply  more  than 
is  lost.  Si  qua  latent,  meliora  putat.  "It  is  remarkable,"  says  the 
elder  Pliny,  "  that  the  Iris  of  Aristides,  the  Tyndarides  of  Nicomachus, 
and  the  Venus  of  Apelles,  are  held  in  higher  admiration  than  their 
finished  works."  And  is  it  not  so  in  almost  everything? 

Call  up  him  that  lea  half-told 
The  story  of  Catnbuscan  bold  — 

P.  179,  1.  26. 
The  soldier,  &c. 

In  the  Lusiad,  to  beguile  the  heavy  hours  at  sea,  Veloso  relates  to 
his  companions  of  the  second  watch  the  story  of  the  Twelve  Knights. — 
L.  vi. 

P.  180,  1.  2. 

So  Fortune  smiled,  careless  of  sea  or  land! 

Among  those  who  went  with  Columbus  were  many  adventurers,  and 
gentlemen  of  the  court.  Primero  was  the  game  then  in  fashion.  — 
See  Vega,  p.  2,  lib.  iii.  c.  9. 

P.  180, 1.  16. 

LERMA  '  the  generous,1  AVILA  '  the  proud;' 
Many  such  appellations  occur  in  Bernal  Diaz,  c.  204. 

P.  180,  1.  24. 

Yet  who  but  He  undaunted  could  explore 

Many  sighed  and  wept ;  and  every  hour  seemed  a  year,  says  Herrera. 
— I.  i.  9  and  10. 


208  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

P.  181,  1.  19. 

While  his  dear  boys  —  ah,  on  his  neck  they  hung, 

"  But  I  was  most  afflicted,  when  I  thought  of  my  two  sons,  whom  I 
had  left  behind  me  in  a  strange  country  .  .  .  before  I  had  done, 
or  at  least  could  be  known  to  have  done,  anything  which  might  incline 
your  highnesses  to  remember  them.  And  though  I  comforted  myself 
with  the  reflection  that  our  Lord  would  not  suffer  so  earnest  an  endea- 
TOUT  for  the  exaltation  of  his  church  to  come  to  nothing,  yet  I  con- 
sidered that,  on  account  of  my  unworthiness,"  &c. — Hist.  c.  37. 

P.  181,  1.  27. 
The  great  GONZALO 

Gonsalvo,  or,  as  he  is  called  in  Castilian,  Gonzalo  Hernandez  de 
Cordova,  already  known  by  the  name  of  The  Great  Captain.  Granada 
surrendered  on  the  2nd  of  January,  1492.  Columbus  set  sail  on  the 
3d  of  August  following. 

P.  182,  1.  4. 
Tho'  ROLDAN,  $c. 

Probably  a  soldier  of  fortune.  There  were  more  than  one  of  the 
name  on  board. 

P.  182, 1.  24. 
War  and  the  Great  in  War  let  others  sing, 

Not  but  that  in  the  profession  of  Arms  there  are  at  all  times  many 
noble  natures.  Let  a  soldier  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth  speak  for  those 
who  had  commanded  under  him,  those  whom  he  calls  "  the  chief  men 
of  action." 

"  Now  that  I  have  tried  them,  I  would  choose  them  for  friends,  if  I 
had  them  not :  before  I  had  tried  them,  God  and  his  providence  chose 
them  for  me.  I  love  them  for  mine  own  sake  ;  for  I  find  sweetness  in 
their  conversation,  strong  assistance  in  their  employments  with  me, 
and  happiness  in  their  friendship.  I  love  them  for  their  virtue's  sake, 
and  for  their  greatness  of  mind  (for  little  minds,  though  never  so  full 
of  virtue,  can  be  but  a  little  virtuous),  and  for  their  great  understand- 
ing :  for  to  understand  little  things,  or  things  not  of  use,  is  little  better 
than  to  understand  nothing  at  all.  I  love  them  for  their  affections ;  for 
self-loving  men  love  ease,  pleasure,  and  profit;  but  they  that  love 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.     ,  209 

pains,  danger,  and  fame,  show  that  they  love  public  profit  more  than 
themselves.  I  love  them  for  my  country's  sake :  for  they  are  England's 
best  armour  of  defence,  and  weapons  of  offence.  If  we  may  have 
peace,  they  have  purchased  it:  if  we  must  have  war,  they  must 
manage  it,"  &c. 

P.  183,  1.  19. 

The  Cross  shone  forth  in  everlasting  light! 

The  Cross  of  the  South ;  "  una  Croce  maravigliosa,  e  di  tanta  bel- 
lezza,"  says  Andrea  Corsali,  a  Florentine,  writing  to  Giuliano  of 
Medicis  iu  1515,  "  che  non  mi  pare  ad  alcuno  segno  celeste  doverla 
comparere.  E  s'  io  non  mi  inganno,  credo  che  sia  questo  il  crusero  di 
che  Dante  parlo  nel  principio  del  Purgatorio  con  spirito  profetico,  dicendo, 

1'  mi  volsi  a  man  destra,  e  posi  mente 
All'  altro  polo,  e  vidi  quattro  stelle,"  &c. 

It  is  still  sacred  in  the  eyes  of  the  Spaniards.  "Un  sentiment 
religieux  les  attache  a  une  constellation  dont  liv  forme  leur  rappelle  ce 
signe  de  la  foi  plante"  par  leurs  ancetres  dans  les  deserts  du  nouveau 
monde." 

P.  183,  1.  29. 

Roc  of  the  West !  to  him  all  empire  given  ! 

Le  Condor  est  le  meme  oiseau  que  le  Roc  des  Orientaux.  BUFFON. — 
"By  the  Peruvians,"  says  Vega,  "he  was  anciently  worshipped ;  and 
there  were  those  who  claimed  their  descent  from  him."  In  these  de- 
generate days  he  still  ranks  above  the  Eagle. 


P.  183,  1.  30. 

Who  bears  Axalhua's  dragon-folds  to  heaven  ; 

As  the  Roc  of  the  East  is  said  to  have  carried  off  the  Elephant. 
See  Marco  Polo. — Axalhua,  or  the  Emperor,  is  the  name  in  the  Mexican 
language  for  the  great  serpent  of  America. 

P.  184,  1.  6. 

To  where  ALASKA'S  wintry  wilds  retire  ; 
Northern  extremity  of  the  New  World.     See  Cook's  last  Voyage. 

18*  2s 


210  THE    VOYAGE    OP    COLUMBUS. 


P.  184,  1.  7. 

From  mines  of  gold    .     . 

Mines  of  Chili ;  •which  extend,  says  Ovalle,  to  the  Straits  of  Ma- 
gellan.— I.  4. 

P.  184,  1.  10. 

High-hung  in  forests  to  the  casing  snoics. 

A  custom  not  peculiar  to  the  Western  Hemisphere.  The  Tunguses 
of  Siberia  hang  their  dead  on  trees;  "parceque  la  terre  ne  se  laisse 
point  ouvrir."  M.  PAUW. 

P.  184,  1.  26. 

.     .     .     and,  thro'  that  dismal  night, 

"Aquella  noche  triste."  The  night,  on  which  Cortes  made  his 
famous  retreat  from  Mexico  through  the  street  of  Tlacopan,  still  goes 
by  the  name  of  LA  NOCHE  TKISTE.  HUMBOLDT. 

P.  184,  1.  27. 

By  his  white  plume  revealed  and  buskins  white, 

Pizarro  used  to  dress  in  this  fashion ;  after  Gonzalo,  whom  he  had 
served  under  in  Italy. 

P.  185,  1.  5. 
O'er  him  a  Vampire  his  dark  wings  displayed. 

A  species  of  Bat  in  South  America ;  which  refreshes  by  the  gentle 
agitation  of  its  wings,  while  it  sucks  the  blood  of  the  sleeper,  turning 
his  sleep  into  death. 

P.  185,  1.  6. 
'Twas  MERION'S  self,  covering  with  dreadful  shade. 

Now  one, 

Now  other,  as  their  shape  served  best  his  end. 

Undoubtedly,  says  Herrera,  the  Infernal  Spirit  assumed  various  shapes 
in  that  region  of  the  world. 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS.  211 

P.  185,  1.  10. 
Then,  inly  gliding,  $c. 

Many  a  modern  reader  will  exclaim  in  the  language  of  Pococurante, 
"Quelle  triste  extravagance!"  Let  a  great  theologian  of  that  day,  a 
monk  of  the  Augustine  order,  be  consulted  on  the  subject.  "Corpus 
iile  perimere  vel  jugulare  potest ;  nee  id  modo,  verum  et  animam  ita 
urgere.  et  in  angustum  coarctare  novit,  ut  in  momento  quoque  illi 
excedendum  sit."  LUTHEBUS,  De  Missa  Privata. 

The  Roman  ritual  requires  three  signs  of  possession. 

P.  186,  1.  18. 

And  can  you  shrink  ?  $c. 

The  same  language  had  been  addressed  to  Isabella. —  Hist.  c.  15. 

P.  186,  1.  20. 

Oh  had  I  perished,  when  my  failing  frame 

His  miraculous  escape,  in  early  life,  during  a  sea-fight  off  the  coast 
of  Portugal. — Ibid.  c.  5. 

P.  186,  1.  23. 
The  scorn  of  Folly,  and  of  Fraud  the  prey ; 

Nudo  nocchier,  promettitor  di  regni ! 

By  the  Genoese  and  the  Spaniards  he  was  regarded  as  a  man 
resolved  on  "a  wild  dedication  of  himself  to  unpathed  waters,  un- 
dreamed shores ; "  and  the  court  of  Portugal  endeavoured  to  rob  him 
of  the  glory  of  his  enterprise,  by  secretly  despatching  a  vessel  in  the 
course  which  he  had  pointed  out.  "Lorsqu'il  avait  promis  un  nouvel 
hemisphere,"  says  Voltaire,  "on  lui  avait  soutenu  que  cet  hemisphere 
ne  pouvait  exister ;  et  quand  il  1'eut  de"couvert,  on  pre"tendit  qu'il  avait 
e*te"  connu  depuis  long-temps." 

P.  186,  1.  28. 

.     .     .     He  spoke  not  uninspired; 

He  used  to  affirm,  that  he  stood  in  need  of  God's  particular  assist- 
ance ;  like  Moses,  when  he  led  forth  the  people  of  Israel,  who  forbore 
to  lay  violent  hands  upon  him,  because  of  the  miracles  which  God 
wrought  by  his  means.  "So,"  said  the  Admiral,  "did  it  happen  to 
me  on  that  voyage."  Hist.  c.  19. "And  so  easily,"  says  a  Com- 
mentator, "are  the  workings  of  the  Evil  One  overcome  by  the  power 
of  God!" 


212  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

P.  187,  1.  4. 

In  his  own  shape  shall  Death  receive  you  there. 

This  denunciation,  fulfilled  as  it  appears  to  be  in  the  eleventh  canto, 
may  remind  the  reader  of  the  Harpy's  in  Virgil. — JEn.  III.  v.  247. 

P.  188,  1.  3. 

Rose  to  the  Virgin.     .     .     . 

Salve,  regina.  Herrera,  I.  i.  12. — It  was  the  usual  service,  and 
always  sung  with  great  solemnity.  "I  remember  one  evening,"  says 
Oviedo,  "  when  the  ship  was  in  full  sail,  and  all  the  men  were  on  their 
knees,  singing  Salve,  regina,"  &c.  Relacion  Sommaria. — The  hymn, 
0  Sanctissima,  is  still  to  be  heard  after  sunset  along  the  shores  of 
Sicily,  and  its  effect  may  be  better  conceived  than  described. 

P.  188,  1.  9. 
Chosen  of  Men .' 

I  believe  that  he  was  chosen  for  this  great  service ;  and  that,  because 
he  was  to  be  so  truly  an  apostle,  as  in  effect  he  proved  to  be,  therefore 
was  his  origin  obscure ;  that  therein  he  might  resemble  those  who  were 
called  to  make  known  the  name  of  the  Lord  from  seas  and  rivers,  and 
not  from  courts  and  palaces.  And  I  believe  also,  that,  as  in  most  of 
his  doings  he  was  guarded  by  some  special  providence,  his  very  name 
was  not  without  some  mystery ;  for  in  it  is  expressed  the  wonder  he 
performed ;  inasmuch  as  he  conveyed  to  a  new  world  the  grace  of  the 
Holy  Ghost,"  &c.  Hist.  c.  I. 

P.  188,  1.  10. 

first  from  the  prow  to  hail  the  glimmering  light; 
A  light  in  the  midst  of  darkness,  signifying  the  spiritual  light  that 
he  came  to  spread  there. —  F.  Col.  c.  22.     Herrera,  I.  i.  12. 

P.  188,  1.  13. 

PEDEO  !  RODRIGO  !     .     .     .     . 

Pedro  Gutierrez,  a  Page  of  the  King's  Chamber.  Rodrigo  Sanchez 
of  Segovia,  Comptroller  of  the  Fleet. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.      213 

P.  189,  1.  11. 

Slowly,  bare-headed,  thro1  the  surf  we  bore 
The  sacred  cross. 

Signifying  to  the  Infernal  Powers  (all'  infierno  todo)  the  will  of  the 
Most  High,  that  they  should  renounce  a  world  over  which  they  had 
tyrannised  for  so  many  ages.  Ovalle,  iv.  5. 

P.  189,  1.  13. 

But  what  a  scene  was  there  ! 

"  This  country  excels  all  others,  as  far  as  the  day  surpasses  the  night 
in  splendour. — Nor  is  there  a  better  people  in  the  world.  They  love 
their  neighbour  as  themselves;  their  conversation  is  the  sweetest 
imaginable,  their  faces  always  smiling ;  and  so  gentle,  so  affectionate 
are  they,  that  I  swear  to  your  Highnesses,"  &c.  Hist.  c.  30.  33. 

P.  189,  1.  13. 

.     .     .     Nymphs  of  romance,  $c. 

Dryades  formos^ssimas,  aut  nativas  fontium  nymphas  de  quibus  fab- 
ulator  antiquitas,  se  vidisse  arbitrati  sunt.  P.  Martyr,  dec.  i.  lib.  v. 

And  an  eminent  Painter  of  the  present  day,  when  he  first  saw  the 
Apollo  of  the  Belvidere,  was  struck  with  its  resemblance  to  an  American 
warrior. — West's  Discourses  in  the  Royal  Academy,  1794. 


P.  189,  1.  18. 
Come  and  behold,  $c. 

So,  in  like  manner,  when  Cortes  and  his  companions  appeared  at  the 
gates  of  Mexico,  the  young  exclaimed,  "  They  are  Gods !"  while  the 
old  shook  their  heads,  saying,  "They  are  those  who  were  to  come  and 
to  reign  over  us!"  HERRERA. 

P.  189,  1.  29. 

And  see,  the  regal  plumes,  the  couch  of  state! 

"  The  Cacique  came  to  the  shore  in  a  sort  of  palanquin  —  attended 
by  his  ancient  men.  —  The  gifts,  which  he  received  from  me,  were 
afterwards  carried  before  him."  Hist.  c.  32. 


214  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

P.  190,  1.  2. 

The  wondrous  ring,  and  lamp,  and  horse  of  brass. 
The  ring  of  Gyges,  the  lamp  of  Aladdin,  and  the  horse  of  the  Tartai 
king. 

P.  190,  1.  3. 

What  long-drawn  tube,  $c. 

For  the  effects  of  the  telescope,  and  the  mirror,  on  an  uncultivated 
mind,  see  Wallis's  Voyage  round  the  World,  c.  2.  and  6. 

P.  191,  1.  21. 

Thro'  citron-groves,  and  fields  of  yellow  maize, 
JStas  est  illis  aurea.     Apertis  vivunt  hortis.  —  P.  Martyr,  dec.  i.  3. 

P.  191,  1.  25. 

Ceiba, 

The  •wild  cotton-tree,  often  mentioned  in  History.  "  Cortes,"  says 
Bernal  Diaz,  "  took  possession  of  the  Country  in  the  following  manner. 
Drawing  his  sword,  he  gave  three  cuts  with  it  into  a  great  Ceiba,  and 
said — " 

P.  191,  1.  27. 

There  sits  the  bird  that  speaks  ! 
Th£  Parrot,  as  described  by  Aristotle.  —  Hist.  Animal,  viii.  12. 

P.  191,  1.  29. 
Half  bird,  half  fly, 

Here  are  birds  so  small,  says  Herrera,  that,  though  they  are  birds, 
they  are  taken  for  bees  or  butterflies. 

P.  191,  1.  29. 
the  fairy-king  of  flowers 

The  Humming-bird.  Kakopit  (florum  regulus)  is  the  name  of  on 
Indian  bird,  referred  to  this  class  by  Seba. 


THE     VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS.  215 

P.  191,  1.  30. 

Reigns  there,  and  revels,  $c. 
There  also  was  heard  the  wild  cry  of  the  Flamingo. 

What  clarion  winds  along  the  yellow  sands? 
Far  in  the  deep  the  giant  fisher  stands, 
Folding  his  wings  of  flame. 

P.  191,  1.  32. 

Soon  in  the  virgin's  graceful  ear  to  shine. 

II  sert  apres  sa  mort  &  parer  les  jeunes  Indiennes,  qui  portent  en 
pendans  d'oreilles  deux  de  ces  charmans  oiseaux.  —  BCFFON. 

P.  192,  L  8. 

' Mid  branching  palms  and  amaranths  of  gold  ! 

According  to  an  ancient  tradition.  See  Oviedo,  Vega,  Herrera,  &c. 
Not  many  years  afterwards  a  Spaniard  of  distinction  wandered  every- 
where in  search  of  it ;  and  no  wonder,  as  Robertson  observes,  when 
Columbus  himself  could  imagine  that  he  had  found  the  seat  of  Paradise. 

P.  192,  1.  20. 

And  guavas  blushed  as  in  the  vales  of  light. 

They  believed  that  the  souls  of  good  men  were  conveyed  to  a  pleasant 
valley,  abounding  in  guavas  and  other  delicious  fruits.  —  Herrera,  I. 
iii.  3.  Hist,  del  Almirante,  c.  62. 

P.  192,  1.  21. 

There  silent  sate  many  an  unbidden  Guest, 

"The  dead  walk  abroad  in  the  night,  and  feast  with  the  living;" 
(F.  Columbus,  c.  62)  and  "eat  of  the  fruit  called  Guannaba." 

P.  Martyr,  dec.  i.  9. 

P.  193,  1.  6. 

And  sires,  alas,  their  sons  in  battle  slain  ! 

War  reverses  the  order  of  Nature.  In  time  of  peace,  says  Hero- 
dotus, the  sons  bury  their  fathers ;  in  time  of  war  the  fathers  bury 
their  sons !  But  the  Gods  have  willed  it  so.  —  I.  87. 


216  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

P.  193,  1.  15. 
CAZZIVA,     ,     .     ,  ;. 

An  ancient  Cacique,  in  his  life-time  and  after  his  death,  employed 
by  the  Zemi  to  alarm  his  people.  See  Hist.  c.  62. 

P.  193,  1.  22. 

Unseen,  unheard!     Hence,  Minister  of  III! 

The  Author  is  speaking  in  his  inspired  character.  Hidden  things 
are  revealed  to  him.  and  placed  before  his  mind  as  if  they  were  present. 

P.  193,  1.  25. 
.     .     .     too  soon  shall  they  fulfil ; 

"  Nor  could  they  (the  Powers  of  Darkness)  have  more  effectually  pre- 
vented the  progress  of  the  Faith,  than  by  desolating  the  Now  World ; 
by  burying  nations  alive  in  mines,  or  consigning  them  in  all  their  errors 
to  the  sword."  —  Relacion  de  B.  de  las  Casas. 

P.  193,  L  26. 

When  forth  they  rush  as  with  the  torrents  sweep, 
Not  man  alone,  but  many  other  animals  became  extinct  there. 

P.  194,  1.  26. 
Who  among  us  a  life  of  sorrow  spent, 

For  a  summary  of  his  life  and  character  see  "  An  Account  of  the 
European  Settlements,"  P.  I.  c.  8. 

Of  Him  it  might  have  been  said  as  it  was  afterwards  said  of  Bacon, 
and  a  nobler  tribute  there  could  not  be — "In  his  adversity  I  ever 
prayed  that  God  would  give  him  strength,  for  greatness  he  could  not 
•want.  Neither  could  I  condole  for  him  in  a  word  or  syllable,  as  know- 
ing no  accident  could  do  harm  to  virtue,  but  rather  help  to  make  it 
manifest." — B.  JONSON. 

P.  195,  1.  12. 

Signs  like  the  ethereal  bow  —  that  shall  endure  ! 

If  is  remarkable  that  these  phenomena  still  remain  among  the  mys- 
teries of  nature. 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS.  217 

P.  195,  1.  14. 
Day  broke  on  day,  as  God  himself  were  there  ! 

E  di  subito  parve  giorno  a  giorno 
Essere  aggiunto,  come  quci,  che  puote, 
Avesse  '1  Ciel  d'un'  altro  Sole  adorno. 

Faradiso,  I.  61. 

P.  195,  1.  16. 
He  stood,  and  thus  his  secret  soul  addressed. 

Te  tua  fata  docebo.  —  VIBO. 
Saprai  di  tua  vita  il  viaggio.  —  DANTE. 

P.  195,  1.  26. 

And  dash  the  floods  of  ocean  to  the  stars  ; 

When  he  ^ptered  the  Tagus,  all  the  seamen  ran  from  all  parts  to 
behold,  as  it  were  some  wonder,  a  ship  that  had  escaped  so  terrible  a 
storm.  —  Hist.  c.  40. 

•> 

P.  195,  1.  28. 

And  Thee  restore  thy  Secret  to  the  Deep  ! 

"I  wrote  on  a  parchment  that  I  had  discovered  what  I  had  pro- 
mised ; — and,  having  put  it  into  a  cask,  I  threw  it  into  the  sea." 

Ibid.  c.  37. 

P.  496,  1.  1. 

To  other  eyes,  from  distant  cliff  descried, 

Balboa  immediately  concluded  it  to  be  the  ocean  for  which  Columbus 
had  searched  in  vain ;  and  when,  at  length,  after  a  toilsome  march 
among  the  mountains,  his  guides  pointed  out  to  him  the  summit  from 
which  it  might  be  seen,  he  commanded  his  men  to  halt,  and  went  up 
alone.  —  HEEKERA,  I.  x.  1. 

P.  196,  1.  7. 

Hung  in  thy  chamber,  buried  in  thy  grave  I 

"  I  always  saw  them  in  his  room,  and  he  ordered  them  to  be  buried 
with  his  body."— Hist.  c.  86. 

19  2c 


218  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

P.  196,  1.  8. 
Thy  reverend  form 

His  person,  says  Herrera,  had  an  air  of  grandeur.  His  hair,  from 
many  hardships,  had  long  been  grey.  In  him  you  saw  a  man  of  an 
unconquerable  courage,  and  high  thoughts ;  patient  of  wrongs,  calm  in 
adversity,  ever  trusting  in  God  ;  —  and,  had  he  lived  in  ancient  times, 
statues  and  temples  would  have  been  erected  to  him  without  number, 
and  his  name  would  have  been  placed  among  the  stars. 

P.  196,  1.  9. 

A.  phantom  wandering  in  the  light  of  day  ! 
See  the  Agamemnon  of  2Echylus,  v.  82.     ^ 

P.  196,  1.  12.  * 

Thy  sons  reproached  with  their  great  father 's  fame, 
"  There  go  the  sons  of  him  who  discovered  those  fatal  countries," 
&c.— Hist.  c.  85. 

P.  196,  1.  17. 

By  dogs  of  carnage    .     .     . 

One  of  these,  on  account  of  his  extraordinary  sagacity  and  fierceness, 
received  the  full  allowance  of  a  soldier.  His  name  was  Berezillo. 

P.  196,  1.  18. 

Swept  —  till  the  voyager,  in  the  desert  air, 

"  With  my  own  eyes  I  saw  kingdoms  as  full  of  people,  as  hives  are 
full  of  bees ;  and  now  where  are  they  ?"  —  LAS  CASAS. 


P.  196,  1.  19. 

Starts  back  to  hear  his  altered  accents  there ! 

No  unusual  effect  of  an  exuberant  vegetation.  "  The  air  was  so 
Titiated,"  says  an  African  traveller,  "  that  our  torches  burnt  dim,  and 
seemed  ready  to  be  extinguished;  and  even  the  human  voice  lost  its 
natural  tone." 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS.      219 

P.  196,  1.  24. 

Here,  in  His  train,  shall  arts  and  arms  attend, 

"  There  are  those  alive,"  said  an  illustrious  orator,  "  whose  memory 
might  touch  the  two  extremities.  Lord  Bathurst,  in  1704,  was  of  an 
age  to  comprehend  such  things — and,  if  his  angel  had  then  drawn  up 
the  curtain,  and,  while  he  was  gazing  with  admiration,  had  pointed  out 
to  him  a  speck,  and  had  told  him,  '  Young  man,  there  is  America — 
which,  at  this  day,  serves  for  little  more  than  to  amuse  you  with  stories 
of  savage  men  and  uncouth  manners ;  yet  shall,  before  you  taste  of 
death,'  "  &c.  — BUKKE,  in  1775. 

P.  196,  1.  26. 
Assembling  here,  $c. 

How  simple  were  the  manners  of  the  early  colonists!  The  first 
ripening  of  any  European  fruit  was  distinguished  by  a  family-festival. 
Garcilasso  de  la  Vega  relates  how  his  dear  father,  the  valorous  Andres, 
collected  together  in  his.  chamber  seven  or  eight  gentlemen  to  share 
with  him  three  asparaguses,  the  first  that  ever  grew  on  the  table-land 
of  Cusco.  When  the  cpffation  4f  dressing  them  was  over  (and  it  is 
minutely  described),  he  attributed  the  two  largest  among  his  friends  ; 
begging  that  the  company  would  not  take  it  ill,  if  he  reserved  the  third 
for  himself,  as  it  was  a  thing  from  Spain. 

North  America  became  instantly  an  asylum  for  the  oppressed ;  Hu- 
guenots, and  Catholics,  and  sects^  of  every  name  and  country.  Such 
were  the  first  settlers  in  Carolina  and  Maryland,  Pennsylvania  and 
New  England.  Nor  is  South  America  altogether  without  a  claim  to 
the  title.  Even  now,  while  J  am  writing,  the  ancient  house  of  Braganza 
is  on  its  passage  across  the  Atlantic, 

Cum  sociis,  natoque,  Penatibus,  et  magnis  dis. 

P.  196,  1.  28. 

Untouched  shall  drop  the  fetters  from  the  slave; 

Je  me  transporte  quclquefois  au  dela  d'un  siecle.  J'y  vois  le  bon- 
heur  a  cote  de  1'industrie,  la  douce  tolerance  rempla9ant  la  farouche 
inquisition ;  j'y  vois,  un  jour  de  fete ;  Pe"ruviens,  Mexicains,  Ame'ri- 
cains  libres,  Fran<;ais,  s'embrassant  comme  des  freres,  et  be"nissant  le 
regue  de  la  liberte",  cui  doit  amener  partout  une  harmonic  universelle. 
—  Mais  les  mines,  les  esclaves,  que  deviendront-ils .'  Les  mines  se 
fermeront ;  les  esclaves  seront  les  freres  de  leurs  maitres.  — BKISSOT. 


220  THE    VOYAGE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

There  is  a  prophetic  stanza,  written  a  century  ago  by  Bp.  Berkeley, 
which  I  must  quote,  though  I  shall  suffer  by  the  comparison. 

Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way : 

The  four  first  acts  already  past, 
A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day. 

Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last. 

P.  197,  1.  6. 
The  spoiler  spoiled  of  all; 

Cortes.  A  peine  put-il  obtenir  audience  de  Charles-Quint ;  un  jour 
51  fendit  la  presse  qui  entourait  la  coche  de  1'emperenr,  et  monta  sur 
l'e"trier  de  la  portiere.  Charles  demanda  quel  e"tait  cet  homme ;  "  C'est," 
re'pondit  Cortes,  "celui  qui  vous  a  donne"  plus  d'e'tats  que  vos  peres  ne 
vous  ont  laisse"  de  villes." — VOLTAIRE. 

P.  197,  1.  6. 

the  slayer  slain  ; 

"Almost  all,"  says  Las  Casas,  "have  perished.  The  innocent  blood, 
•which  they  had  shed,  cried  aloud  for  vengeance ;  the  sighs,  the  tears 
of  so  many  victims  went  up  before  God." 

P.  197,  1.  8. 

'Mid  gems  and  gold  unenvied  and  unblest ; 

L'Espagne  a  fait  comme  ce  roi  insense"  qui  demanda  que  tout  ce  qu'il 
toucheroit  se  convertit  en  or,  et  qui  fut  oblige"  de  revenir  aux  dieux 
pour  les  prier  de  finir  sa  misere. —  MONTESQUIEU. 

P.  199,  1.  13. 

Where  on  his  altar-tomb,  £c. 
An  Interpolation. 

P.  199,  1.  22. 

Tho'  in  the  western  world  His  grave, 

An  Anachronism.  The  body  of  Columbus  was  not  yet  removed  from 
Seville. 

It  is  almost  unnecessary  to  point  out  another  in  the  Ninth  Canto. 
The  telescope  was  not  then  in  use  ;  though  described  long  before  with 
great  accuracy  by  Roger  Bacon. 


ITALY. 


PREFACE. 

IN  this  Poem  the  Author  has  endeavoured  to  describe 
his  journey  through  a  beautiful  country;  and  it  may 
not  perhaps  be  uninteresting  to  those  who  have  learned 
to  live  in  Past  Times  as  -well  as  Present,  and  whose 
minds  are  familiar  with  the  Events  and  the  People  that 
have  rendered  Italy  so  illustrious ;  for,  wherever  he 
came,  he  could  not  but  remember;  nor  is  he  conscious 
of  having  slept  over  any  ground  that  had  been,  '  dig- 
nified by  wisdom,  bravery,  or  virtue.' 


THE  LAKE  OF  GENEVA. 

DAT  glimmered"in  the  east,  and  the  white  Moon 

Hung  like  a  vapour  in  the  cloudless  sky, 

Yet  visible,  when  on  my  way  I  went, 

Glad  to  be  gone;  a  pilgrim  from  the  North, 

Now  more  and  more  attracted  as  I  drew 

Nearer  and  nearer.     Ere  the  artisan 

19  *  (221) 


222  ITALY. 

Had  from  his  window  leant  with  folded  arms 
To  snuff  the  morn,  or  the  caged  lark  poured  forth, 
From  his  green  sod  upspringing  as  to  heaven, 
(His  tuneful  bill  o'erflowing  with  a  song 
Old  in  the  days  of  HOMER,  and  his  wings 
With  transport  quivering)  on  my  way  I  went, 
Thy  gates,  GENEVA,  swinging  heavily, 
Thy  gates  so  slow  to  open,  swift  to  shut ; 
As  on  that  Sabbath-eve  when  He  arrived,* 
Whose  name  is  now  thy  glory,  now  by  thee, 
Such  virtue  dwells  in  those  small  syllables, 
Inscribed  to  consecrate  the  narrow  street, 
His  birth-place, —  when,  but  one  short  step  too  late, 
In  his  despair,  as  though  the  die  were  cast, 
He  sat  him  down  to  weep,  and  wept  till  dawn; 
Then  rose  to  go,  a  wanderer  through  the  world. 
'Tis  not  a  tale  that  every  hour  brings  with  it. 
Yet  at  a  City-gate,  from  time  to  time, 
Much  may  be  learnt ;  nor,  London,  least  at  thine, 
They  hive  the  busiest,  greatest  of  them  all, 
Gathering,  enlarging  still.     Let  us  stand  by, 
And  note  who  passes.     Here  comes  one,  a  Youth, 
Glowing  with  pride,  the  pride  of  conscious  power, 
A  CHATTERTON —  in  thought  admired,  caressed, 
And  crowned  like  PETRARCH  in  the  Capitol; 
Ere  long  to  die,  to  fall  by  his  own  hand, 
And  fester  with  the  vilest.     Here  come  two, 
Less  feverish,  less  exalted — soon  to  part, 
A  GARRICK  and  a  JOHNSON;  Wealth  and  Fame 
Awaiting  one,  even  at  the  gate;  Neglect 

*  J.  J.  EOUSSEAU. 


ITALY.  223 

And  Want  the  other.     But  -what  multitudes, 
Urged  by  the  love  of  change,  and,  like  myself, 
Adventurous,  careless  of  to-morrow's  fare, 
Press  on  —  though  but  a  rill  entering  the  sea, 
Entering  and  lost!     Our  task  would  never  end. 
Day  glimmered,  and  I  went,  a  gentle  breeze 
Ruffling  the  LEMAN  Lake.     Wave  after  wave, 
If  such  they  might  be  called,  dashed  as  in  sport, 
Not  anger,  with  the  pebbles  on  the  beach, 
Making  wild  music,  and  far  westward  caught 
The  sun-beam  —  where,  alone  and  as  entranced, 
Counting  the  hours,  the  fisher  in  his  skiff 
Lay  with  his  circular  and  dotted  line 
On  the  bright  waters.     When  the  heart  of  man 
Is  light  with  hope,  all  things  are  sure  to  please; 
And  soon  a  passage-boat  swept  gaily  by, 
Laden  with  peasant-girls  and  fruits  and  flowers, 
And  many  a  chanticleer  and  partlet  caged 
For  VEVEY'S  market-place  —  a  motley  group 
Seen  through  the  silvery  haze.     But  soon  'twas  gone. 
The  shifting  sail  flapped  idly  to  and  fro, 
Then  bore  them  off.     I  am  not  one  of  those 
So  dead  to  all  things  in  this  visible  world, 
So  wondrously  profound,  as  to  move  on 
In  the  sweet  light  of  heaven,  like  him  of  old* 
(His  name  is  justly  in  the  Calendar) 
Who  through  the  day  pursued  this  pleasant  path 
That  winds  beside  the  mirror  of  all  beauty, 
And,  when  at  eve  his  fellow-pilgrims  sat, 
Discoursing  of  the  lake,  asked  where  it  was. 

*  BEENARD,  Abbot  of  Clairvaux. 


224  ITALY. 

They  marvelled,  as  they  might;  and  so  must  all, 
Seeing  what  now  I  saw:  for  now  'twas  day, 
And  the  bright  Sun  was  in  the  firmament, 
A  thousand  shadows  of  a  thousand  hues 
Chequering  the  clear  expanse.     Awhile  his  orb 
Hung  o'er  thy  trackless  fields  of  snow,  MONT  BLANC, 
Thy  seas  of  ice  and  ice-built  promontories, 
That  change  their  shapes  for  ever  as  in  sport : 
Then  travelled  onward,  and  went  down  behinc 
The  pine-clad  heights  of  JUKA,  lighting  up 
The  woodman's  casement,  and  perchance  his  axe 
Borne  homeward  through  the  forest  in  his  hand ; 
And  on  the  edge  of  some  o'erhanging  cliff, 
That  dungeon-fortress  never  to  be  named, 
Where,  like  a  lion  taken  in  the  toils,     '^-  : 
Toussaint  breathed  out  his  brave  and  generous  spirit. 
Ah,  little  did  He  think,  who  sent  him  there, 
That  he  himself,  then  greatest  among  men, 
Should  in  like  manner  be  so  soon  conveyed 
Athwart  the  deep, — -and  to  a  rock  so  small 
Amid  the  countless  multitude  of  waves, 
That  ships  have  gone  and  sought  it,  and  returned, 
Saying  it  was  not ! 


MEILLERIE. 

THESE  grey  majestic  cliffs  that  tower  to  heaven, 
These  glimmering  glades  and  open  chestnut-groves, 
That  echo  to  the  heifer's  wandering  bell, 
Or  woodman's  axe,  or  steers-man's  song  beneath, 
As  on  he  urges  his  fir-laden  bark, 


ITALY.  225 

Or  shout  of  goat-herd  boy  above  them  all, 

Who  loves  not?     And  who  blesses  not  the  light, 

When  thro'  some  loop-hole  he  surveys  the  lake 

Blue  as  a  sapphire-stone,  and  richly  set 

With  chateaux,  villages,  and  village-spires, 

Orchards  and  vineyards,  alps  and  alpine  snows? 

Here  would  I  dwell;  nor  visit,  but  in  thought, 

FER.NEY  far  south,  silent  and  empty  now 

As  now  thy  once-luxurious  bowers,  RIPAILLE; 

VEVEY,  so  long  an  exiled  Patriot's*  home; 

Or  CHILLON'S  dungeon-floors  beneath  the  wave, 

Channelled  and  worn  by  pacing  to  and  fro; 

LAUSANNE,  where  GIBBON  in  his  sheltered  walk 

Nightly  called  up  the  Shade  of  ancient  ROME  ; 

Or  COPPET,  and  that  dark  untrodden  grove  f 

Sacred  to  Virtue",  and  a  daughter's  tears ! 

Here  would  I  dwell,  forgetting  and  forgot ; 

And  oft  methinks  (of  such  strange  potency 

The  spells  that  Genius  scatters  where  he  will) 

Oft  should  I  wander  forth,  like  one  in  search, 

And  say,  half-dreaming,  '  Here  ST.  PREUX  has  stood  !' 

Then  turn  and  gaze  on  CLARENS. 

Yet  there  is, 

Within  an  eagle's  flight  and  less,  a  scene 
Still  nobler  if  not  fairer  (once  again 
Would  I  behold  it  ere  these  eyes  are  closed, 
For  I  can  say,  *-!  also  have  been  there ! ') 
That  Sacred  LakeJ  withdrawn  among  the  hills, 
Its  depth  of  waters  flanked  as  with  a  wall 

*  LTTDLOW.  f  The  burial-place  of  NECKEK. 

J  The  Lake  of  the  Four  Cantons. 
2D 


226  ITAJ-Y. 

Built  by  the  Giant-race  before  the  flood; 

Where  not  a  cross  or  chapel  but  inspires 

Holy  delight,  lifting  our  thoughts  to  God 

From  God-like  men, —  men  in  a  barbarous  age 

That  dared  assert  their  birth-right,  and  displayed 

Deeds  half-divine,  returning  good  for  ill; 

That  in  the  desert  sowed  the  seeds  of  life, 

Framing  a  band  of  small  republics  there, 

Which  still  exist,  the  envy  of  the  world ! 

Who  would  not  land  in  each,  and  tread  the  ground; 

Land  where  TELL  leaped  ashore;  and  climb  to  drink 

Of  the  three  hallowed  fountains?     He  that  does, 

Comes  back  the  better;  and  relates  at  home 

That  he  was  met  and  greeted  by  a  race 

Such  as  he  read  of  in  his  boyish  days; 

Such  as  MILTIADES  at  Marathon 

Led,  when  he  chased  the  Persians  to  their  ships. 

There,  while  the  well-known  boat  is  heaving  in, 
Piled  with  rude  merchandise,  or  launching  forth, 
Thronged  with  wild  cattle  for  Italian  fairs, 
There  in  the  sun-shine,  'mid  their  native  snows, 
Children,  let  loose  from  school,  contend  to  use 
The  cross-bow  of  their  fathers ;  and  o'er-run 
The  rocky  field  where  all,  in  every  age, 
Assembling  sit,  like  one  great  family, 
Forming  alliances,  enacting  laws; 
Each  cliff  and  head-land  and  green  promontory 
Graven  to  their  eyes  with  records  of  the  past 
That  prompt  to  hero-worship,  and  excite 
Even  in  the  least,  the  lowliest,  as  he  toils, 
A  reverence  no  where  else  or  felt  or  feigned; 
Their  chronicler  great  Nature;  and  the  volume 


I  TVA  L  Y.  227 

Vast  as  her  works  —  above,  below,  around  ! 
The  fisher  on  thy  beach,  THERMOPYLAE, 
Asks  of  the  lettered  stranger  why  he  came, 
First  from  his  lips  to  learn  the  glorious  truth ! 
And  who  that  whets  his  scythe  in  RUNNEMEDE, 
Though  but  for  them  a  slave,  recalls  to  mind 
The  barons  in  array  with  their  great  charter? 
Among  the  everlasting  Alps  alone, 
There  to  burn  on  as  in  a  sanctuary, 
Bright  and  unsullied  lives  th'  ethereal  flame ; 
And  'mid  those  scenes  unchanged,  unchangeable, 
Why  should  it  ever  die? 


„       ST.  MAURICE. 

STILL  by  the  LEMAN  Lake  for  many  a  mile, 

Among  those  venerable  trees  I  went, 

Where  damsels  sit  and  weave  their  fishing-nets, 

Singing  some  national  song  by  the  way-side. 

But  now  the  fly  was  gone,  the  gnat  was  come ; 

Now  glimmering  lights  from  cottage-windows  broke. 

'Twas  dusk  ;  and,  journeying  upward  by  the  RHONE, 

That  there  came  down,  a  torrent  from  the  Alps, 

I  entered  where  a  key  unlocks  a  kingdom ; 

The  road  and  river,  as  they  wind  along, 

Filling  the  mountain-pass.     There,  till  a  ray 

Glanced  thro'  my  lattice,  and  the  household-stir 

Warned  me  to  rise,  to  rise  and  to  depart, 

A  stir  unusual,  and  accompanied 

With  many  a  tuning  of  rude  instruments, 

And  many  a  laugh  that  argued  coming  pleasure, 


228  ITALY. 

Mine  host's  fair  daughter  for  the  nuptial  rite 

And  nuptial  feast  attiring  —  there  I  slept, 

And  in  my  dreams  wandered  once  more,  well-pleased. 

But  now  a  charm  was  on  the  rocks  and  woods 

And  waters;  for    methought,  I  was  with  those 

I  had  at  morn  and  even  wished  were  there. 


THE  GREAT  ST.  BERNARD. 

NIGHT  was  again  descending,  when  my  mule, 

That  all  day  long  had  climbed  among  the  clouds, 

Higher  and  higher  still,  as  by  a  stair 

Let  down  from  heaven  itself,  transporting  me, 

Stopped,  to  the  joy  of  both,  at  that  low  door, 

That  door  which  ever,  as  self-opened,  moves 

To  them  that  knock,  and  nightly  sends  abroad 

Ministering  Spirits.     Lying  on  the  watch, 

Two  dogs  of  grave  demeanour  welcomed  me., 

All  meekness,  gentleness,  tho'  large  of  limb ; 

And  a  lay-brother  of  the  Hospital, 

"Who,  as  we  toiled  below,  had  heard  by  fits 

The  distant  echoes  gaining  on  his  ear, 

Came  and  held  fast  my  stirrup  in  his  hand 

While  I  alighted.     Long  could  I  have  stood, 

With  a  religious  awe  contemplating 

That  House,  the  highest  in  the  Ancient  World, 

And  destined  to  perform  from  age  to  age 

The  noblest  service,  welcoming  as  guests 

All  of  all  nations  and  of  every  faith ; 

A  temple,  sacred  to  Humanity ! 

It  was  a  pile  of  simplest  masonry, 


ITALY.  229 

With  narrow  windows  and  vast  buttresses, 

Built  to  endure  the  shocks  of  time  and  chance; 

Yet  showing  many  a  rent,  as  well  it  might, 

"Warred  on  for  ever  by  the  elements, 

And  in  an  evil  day,  nor  long  ago, 

By  violent  men  —  when  on  the  mountain-top 

The  French  and  Austrian  banners  met  in  conflict. 

On  the  same  rock  beside  it  stood  the  church, 
Reft  of  its  cross,  not  of  its  sanctity; 
The  vesper-bell,  for  'twas  the  vesper-hour, 
Duly  proclaiming  thro'  the  wilderness, 
'All  ye  who  hear,  whatever  be  your  work, 
Stop  for  an  instant  —  move  your  lips  in  prayer!' 
And,  just  beneath  it,  in  that  dreary  dale, 
If  dale  it  might  be  called,  so  near  to  heaven, 
A  little  lake,  whe~re  never  fish  leaped  up, 
Lay  like  a  spot  of  ink  amid  the  snow; 
A  star,  the  only  one  in  that  small  sky, 
On  its  dead  surface  glimmering.     'Twas  a  place 
Resembling  nothing  I  had  left  behind, 
As  if  all  worldly  ties  were  now  dissolved ;  — 
And,  to  incline  the  mind  still  more  to  thought, 
To  thought  and  sadness,  on  the  eastern  shore 
Under  a  beetling  cliff  stood  half  in  gloom 
A  lonely  chapel  destined  for  the  dead, 
For  such  as,  having  wandered  from  their  way, 
Had  perished  miserably.     Side  by  side, 
Within  they  lie,  a  mournful  company, 
All  in  their  shrouds,  no  earth  to  cover  them ; 
Their  features  full  of  life  yet  motionless 
In  the  broad  day,  nor  soon  to  suffer  change, 
Though  the  barred  windows,  barred  against  the  wolf, 
20 


230  ITALY. 

Are  always  open !  —  But  the  North  blew  cold ; 

And,  bidden  to  a  spare  but  cheerful  meal, 

I  sat  among  the  holy  brotherhood 

At  their  long  board.     The  fare  indeed  was  such 

As  is  prescribed  on  days  of  abstinence, 

But  might  have  pleased  a  nicer  taste  than  mine ; 

And  through  the  floor  came  up,  an  ancient  crone 

Serving  unseen  below;  while  from  the  roof 

(The  roof,  the  floor,  the  walls  of  native  fir,) 

A  lamp  hung  flickering,  such  as  loves  to  fling 

Its  partial  light  on  Apostolic  heads, 

And  sheds  a  grace  on  all.     Theirs  Time  as  yet 

Had  changed  not.     Some  were  almost  in  the  prime; 

Nor  was  a  brow  o'ercast.     Seen  as  they  sat, 

Ranged  round  their  ample  hearth-stone  in  an  hour 

Of  rest,  they  were  as  gay,  as  free  from  guile, 

As  children ;  answering,  and  at  once,  to  all 

The  gentler  impulses,  to  pleasure,  mirth ; 

Mingling,  at  intervals,  with  rational  talk 

Music;  and  gathering  news  from  them  that  came, 

As  of  some  other  world.     But  when  the  storm 

Rose,  and  the  snow  rolled  on  in  ocean-waves, 

When  on  his  face  the  experienced  traveller  fell, 

Sheltering  his  lips  and  nostrils  with  his  hands, 

Then  all  was  changed ;  and,  sallying  with  their  pack 

Into  that  blank  of  Nature,  they  became 

Unearthly  beings.     'Anselm,  higher  up, 

Just  where  it  drifts,  a  dog  howls  loud  and  long, 

And  now,  as  guided  by  a  voice  from  Heaven, 

Digs  with  his  feet.     That  noble  vehemence 

Whose  can  it  be,  but  his  who  never  erred  ? 

A  man  lies  underneath  !     Let  us  to  work !  — 


ITALY.  231 

But  who  descends  MONT  VELAN?    'Tis.La  Croix. 
Away,  away !  if  not,  alas  too  late. 
Homeward  he  drags  an  old  man  and  a  boy, 
Faltering  and  falling,  and  but  half  awaked, 
Asking  to  sleep  again.'     Such  their  discourse. 

Oft  has  a  venerable  roof  received  me ; 
St.  BRUNO'S  once  * — where,  when  the  winds  were  hushed, 
Nor  from  the  cataract  the  voice  came  up, 
You  might  have  heard  the  mole  work  underground, 
So  great  the  stillness  of  that  place;  none  seen, 
Save  when  from  rock  to  rock  a  hermit  crossed 
By  some  rude  bridge  —  or  one  at  midnight  tolled 
To  matins,  and  white  habits,  issuing  forth, 
Glided  along  those  aisles  interminable, 
All,  all  observant  of  the  sacred  law 
Of  Silence.     Nor  Is  that  sequestered  spot, 
Once  called  '  Sweet  Waters,'  now  '  The  Shady  Vale,'f 
To  me  unknown;  that  house  so  rich  of  old, 
So  courteous,  and,  by  two  that  passed  that  way, 
Amply  requited  with  immortal  verse, 
The  Poet's  payment.     But,  among  them  all, 
None  can  with  this  compare,  the  dangerous  seat 
Of  generous,  active  Virtue.     What  though  Frost 
Reign  everlastingly,  and  ice  and  snow 
Thaw  not,  but  gather  —  there  is  that  within, 
Which,  where  it  cpmes,  makes  Summer ;  and,  in  thought, 
Oft  am  I  sitting  on  the  bench  beneath 
Their  garden-plot,  where  all  that  vegetates 
Is  but  some  scanty  lettuce,  to  observe 

*  The  Grande  Chartreuse. 

•j-  Vallombrosa,  formerly  called  Acqua  Bella. 


232  ITALY. 

Those  from  the  south  ascending,  every  step 
As  though  it  were  their  last, —  and  instantly 
Restored,  renewed,  advancing  as  with  songs, 
Soon  as  they  see,  turning  a  lofty  cra'g, 
That  plain,  that  modest  structure,  promising 
Bread  to  the  hungry,  to  the  weary  rest. 


THE  DESCENT. 

My  mule  refreshed  —  and,  let  the  truth  be  told, 
He  was  nor  dull  nor  contradictory, 
But  patient,  diligent,  and  sure  of  foot, 
Shunning  the  loose  stone  on  the  precipice, 
Snorting  suspicion  while  with  sight,  smell,  touch, 
Trying,  detecting,  where  the  surface  smiled; 
And  with  deliberate  courage  sliding  down, 
Where  in  his  sledge  the  Laplander  had  turned 
With  looks  aghast  —  my  mule  refreshed,  his  bells 
Gingled  once  more,  the  signal  to  depart, 
And  we  set  out  in  the  grey  light  of  dawn, 
Descending  rapidly — by  waterfalls 
Fast-frozen,  and  among  huge  blocks  of  ice 
That  in  their  long  career  had  stopped  mid-way. 
At  length,  unchecked,  unbidden,  he  stood  still; 
And  all  his  bells  were  muffled.     Then  my  Guide, 
Lowering  his  voice,  addressed  me :  '  Thro'  this  Gap 
On  and  say  nothing — lest  a  word,  a  breath 
Bring  down  a  winter's  snow  —  enough  to  whelm 
The  armed  files,  that,  night  and  day,  were  seen 
Winding  from  cliff  to  cliff  in  loose  array 
To  conquer  at  MARENGO.     Though  long  since, 


ITALY.  233 

Well  I  remember  how  I  met  them  here, 
As  the  sun  set  far  down,  purpling  the  west; 
And  how  NAPOLEON,  he  himself,  no  less, 
Wrapt  in  his  cloak  —  I  could  not  he  deceived  — 
Reined  in  his  horse,  and  asked  me,  as  I  passed, 
How  far  'twas  to  St.  Remi.     Where  the  rock 
Juts  forward,  and  the  road,  crumbling  away, 
Narrows  almost  to  nothing  at  the  base, 
'Twas  there ;  and  down  along  the  brink  he  led 
To  Victory!  —  DESAIX,*  who  turned  the  scale, 
Leaving  his  life-blood  in  that  famous  field, 
(When  the  clouds  break,  we  may  discern  the  spot 
In  the  blue  haze)  sleeps,  as  you  saw  at  dawn, 
Just  where  we  entered,  in  the  Hospital-church.' 
So  saying,  for  a  while  he  held  his  peace, 
Awe-struck  beneafh  the  dreadful  canopy; 
But  soon,  the  danger  passed,  launched  forth  again. 


JORASSE. 

JORASSE  was  in  his  three-and-twentieth  year; 
Graceful  and  active  as  a  stag  just  roused; 
Gentle  withal,  and  pleasant  in  his  speech, 
Yet  seldom  seen  to  smile.     He  had  grown  up 
Among  the  hunters  of  the  Higher  Alps; 
Had  caught  their  starts  and  fits  of  thoughtfulness, 
Their  haggard  looks,  and  strange  soliloquies, 
Arising  (so  say  they  that  dwell  below) 

*  '  Many  able  men  have  served  under  me ;  but  none  like  him.     He 
loved  glory  for  itself.' 

20*  2E 


234  ITALY. 

From  frequent  dealings  with  the  Mountain-Spirits. 

But  other  ways  had  taught  him  better  things ; 

And  now  he  numbered,  marching  by  my  side, 

The  great,  the  learned,  that  with  him  had  crossed 

The  frozen  tract  —  with  him  familiarly 

Thro'  the  rough  day  and  rougher  night  conversed, 

In  many  a  chalet  round  the  Peak  of  Terror,* 

Round  Tacul,  Tour,  Well-horn,  and  Rosenlau, 

And  Her,  whose  throne  is  inaccessible,  f 

Who  sits,  withdrawn  in  virgin-majesty, 

Nor  oft  unveils.     Anon  an  Avalanche 

Rolled  its  long  thunder ;  and  a  sudden  crash, 

Sharp  and  metallic,  to  the  startled  ear 

Told  that  far-down  a  continent  of  Ice 

Had  burst  in  twain.     But  he  had  now  begun ; 

And  with  what  transport  he  recalled  the  hour 

When,  to  deserve,  to  win  his  blooming  bride, 

Madelaine  of  Annecy,  to  his  feet  he  bound 

The  iron  crampons,  and,  ascending,  trod 

The  Upper  Realms  of  Frost ;  then,  by  a  cord 

Let  half-way  down,  entered  a  grot  star-bright, 

And  gathered  from  above,  below,  around, 

The  pointed  crystals !  —  Once,  nor  long  before, 

(Thus  did  his  tongue  run  on,  fast  as  his  feet, 

And  with  an  eloquence  that  Nature  gives 

To  all  her  children  —  breaking  off  by  starts 

Into  the  harsh  and  rude,  oft  as  the  Mule 

Drew  his  displeasure)  once,  nor  long  before, 

Alone  at  day-break  on  the  Mettenberg, 

He  slipped  and  fell;  and,  through  a  fearful  cleft 

*  The  Schreckhorn.  f  The  Jung-frau. 


ITALY.  285 

Gliding  insensibly  from  ledge  to  ledge, 

From  deep  to  deeper  and  to  deeper  still 

Went  to  the  Under-world!     Long-while  he  lay 

Upon  his  rugged  bed  —  then  waked  like  one 

Wishing  to  sleep  again  and  sleep  for  ever! 

For,  looking  round,  he  saw  or  thought  he  saw 

Innumerable  branches  of  a  Cave, 

Winding  beneath  that  solid  Crust  of  Ice ; 

With  here  and  there  a  rent  that  showed  the  stars! 

What  then,  alas,  was  left  him  but  to  die? 

What  else  in  those  immeasurable  chambers, 

Strewn  with  the  bones  of  miserable  men, 

Lost  like  himself!  Yet  must  he  wander  on, 

Till  cold  and  hunger  set  his  spirit  free ! 

And,  rising,  he  began  his  dreary  round; 

When  hark,  the  noise  as  of  some  mighty  Flood 

Working  its  way  fb  light.     Back  he  withdrew, 

But  soon  returned,  and,  fearless  from  despair, 

Dashed  down  the  dismal  Channel ;  and  all  day, 

If  day  could  be  where  utter  darkness  was, 

Travelled  incessantly ;  the  craggy  roof 

Just  over-head,  and  the  impetuous  waves, 

Nor  broad  nor  deep,  yet  with  a  giant's  strength, 

Lashing  him  on.     At  last  as  in  a  pool 

The  water  slept ;  a  pool  sullen,  profound, 

Where,  if  a  billow  chanced  to  heave  and  swell, 

It  broke  not ;  and  the  roof,  descending,  lay 

Flat  on  the  surface.     Statue-like  he  stood, 

His  journey  ended;  when  a  ray  divine 

Shot  through  his  soul.     Breathing  a  prayer  to  Her 

Whose  ears  are  never  shut,  the  Blessed  Virgin, 

He  plunged  and  swam — and  in  an  instant  rose, 


236  ITALY. 

The  barrier  passed,  in  sunshine !     Through  a  vale, 
Such  as  in  ARCADY,  where  many  a  thatch 
Gleams  thro'  the  trees,  half-seen  and  half-embowered, 
Glittering  the  river  ran;  and  on  the  bank 
The  Young  were  dancing  ('twas  a  festival  day) 
All  in  their  best  attire.     There  first  he  saw 
His  Madelaine.     In  the  crowd  she  stood  to  hear, 
When  all  drew  round,  inquiring;  and  her  face, 
Seen  behind  all  and  varying,  as  he  spoke, 
With  hope  and  fear,  and  generous  sympathy, 
Subdued  him.     From  that  very  hour  he  loved. 

The  tale  was  long,  but  coming  to  a  close, 
When  his  wild  eyes  flashed  fire ;  and,  all  forgot, 
He  listened  and  looked  up.     I  looked  up  too ; 
And  twice  there  came  a  hiss  that  thro'  me  thrilled; 
'Twas  heard  no  more.     A  Chamois  on  the  cliff 
Had  roused  his  fellows  with  that  cry  of  fear, 
And  all  were  gone.     But  now  the  theme  was  changed ! 
And  he  recounted  his  hair-breadth  escapes, 
When  with  his  friend,  Hubert  of  Bionnay, 
(His  ancient  carbine  from  his  shoulder  slung, 
His  axe  to  hew  a  stair-way  in  the  ice,) 
He  tracked  their  wanderings.     By  a  cloud  surprised, 
Where  the  next  step  had  plunged  them  into  air, 
Long  had  they  stood,  locked  in  each  other's  arms, 
Amid  the  gulfs  that  yawned  to  swallow  them; 
Each  guarding  each  through  many  a  freezing  hour, 
As  on  some  temple's  highest  pinnacle, 
From  treacherous  slumber.     Oh,  it  was  a  sport 
Dearer  than  life,  and  but  with  life  relinquished ! 
'My  sire,  my  grandsire  died  among  these  wilds. 
As  for  myself,'  he  cried,  and  he  held  forth 


ITALY.  237 

His  wallet  in  his  hand,  'this  do  I  call 

My  winding-sheet  —  for  I  shall  have  no  other !' 

And  he  spoke  truth.     Within  a  little  month 
He  lay  among  these  awful  solitudes, 
('Twas  on  a  glacier  —  half-way  up  to  heaven) 
Taking  his  final  rest.     Long  did  his  wife, 
Suckling  her  babe,  her  only  one,  look  out 
The  way  he  went  at  parting,  but  he  came  not ; 
Long  fear  to  close  her  eyes,  from  dusk  till  dawn 
Plying  her  distaff  through  the  silent  hours, 
Lest  he  appear  before  her  —  lost  in  sleep, 
If  sleep  steal  on,  he  come  as  all  are  wont, 
Frozen  and  ghastly  blue  or  black  with  gore, 
To  plead  for  the  last  rite. 


MARGUERITE  DE  TOURS. 

Now  the  grey  granite,  starting  through  the  snow, 

Discovered  many  a  variegated  moss  * 

That  to  the  pilgrim  resting  on  his  staff 

Shadows  our  capes  and  islands;  and  ere  long 

Numberless  flowers  such  as  disdain  to  live 

In  lower  regions,  and  delighted  drink 

The  clouds  before  they  fall,  flowers  of  all  hues, 

With  their  diminutive  leaves  covered  the  ground. 

There,  turning  by  a  venerable  larch, 

Shivered  in  two,  yet  most  majestical 

With  his  long  level  branches,  we  observed 

A  human  figure  sitting  on  a  stone 

Far  down  by  the  way-side — just  where  the  rock 

*  Lichen  geographicus. 


238  ITALY. 

Is  riven  asunder,  and  the  Evil  One 
Has  bridged  the  gulf,  a  wondrous  monument 
Built  in  one  night,  from  which  the  flood  beneath, 
Raging  along,  all  foam,  is  seen  not  heard, 
And  seen  as  motionless ! 

Nearer  we  drew; 

And  lo,  a  woman  young  and  delicate, 
Wrapt  in  a  russet  cloak  from  head  to  foot, 
Her  eyes  cast  down,  her  cheek  upon  her  hand, 
In  deepest  thought.     Over  her  tresses  fair, 
Young  as  she  was,  she  wore  the  matron-cap; 
And,  as  we  judged,  not  many  moons  would  change 
Ere  she  became  a  mother.     Pale  she  looked, 
Yet  cheerful;  though,  methought,  once,  if  not  twice, 
She  wiped  away  a  tear  that  would  be  coming ; 
And  in  those  moments  her  small  hat  of  straw, 
Worn  on  one  side,  and  glittering  with  a  band 
Of  silk  and  gold,  but  ill  concealed  a  face 
Not  soon  to  be  forgotten.     Rising  up 
On  our  approach,  she  travelled  slowly  on ; 
And  my  companion,  long  before  we  met, 
Knew,  and  ran  down  to  greet  her. 

She  was  born 

(Such  was  her  artless  tale,  told  with  fresh  tears) 
In  VAL  D'AoSTA;  and  an  alpine  stream, 
Leaping  from  crag  to  crag  in  its  short  course 
To  join  the  DOEA,  turned  her  father's  mill. 
There  did  she  blossom,  till  a  Valaisan, 
A  townsman  of  MAKTIGNY,  won  her  heart, 
Much  to  the  old  man's  grief.     Long  he  refused, 
Loth  to  be  left;  disconsolate  at  the  thought. 
She  was  his  only  one,  his  link  to  life; 


ITALY.  239 

And  in  despair  —  year  after  year  gone  by  — 
One  summer-morn,  they  stole  a  match  and  fled. 
The  act  was  sudden;  and,  when  far  away, 
Her  spirit  had  misgivings.     Then,  full  oft, 
She  pictured  to  herself  that  aged  face 
Sickly  and  wan,  in  sorrow,  not  in  wrath; 
And,  when  at  last  she  heard  his  hour  was  near, 
Went  forth  unseen,  and,  burdened  as  she  was, 
Crossed  the  high  Alps  on  foot  to  ask  forgiveness, 
And  hold  him  to  her  heart  before  he  died. 
Her  task  was  done.     She  had  fulfilled  her  wish, 
And  now  was  on  her  way,  rejoicing,  weeping. 
A  frame  like  hers  had  suffered;  but  her  love 
Was  strong  within  her ;  and  right  on  she  went, 
Fearing  no  ill.     May  all  good  Angels  guard  her ! 
And  should  I  once  again,  as  once  I  may, 
Visit  MARTIGNY,  I  will  not  forget 
Thy  hospitable  roof,  MARGUERITE  DE  TOURS; 
Thy  sign  the  silver  swan.     Heaven  prosper  thee ! 


THE  BROTHERS. 

IN  the  same  hour  the  breath  of  life  receiving, 
They  came  together  and  were  beautiful ; 
But,  as  they  slumbered  in  their  mother's  lap, 
How  mournful  was  their  beauty  !     She  would  sit, 
And  look  and  weep,  and  look  and  weep  again; 
For  Nature  had  but  half  her  work  achieved, 
Denying,  like  a  step-dame,  to  the  babes 
Her  noblest  gifts;  denying  speech  to  one, 
And  to  the  other  —  reason. 


240  ITALY. 

But  at  length 

(Seven  years  gone  by,  seven  melancholy  years) 
Another  came,  as  fair  and  fairer  still; 
And  then,  how  anxiously  the  mother  watched 
Till  reason  dawned  and  speech  declared  itself! 
Reason  and  speech  were  his ;  and  down  she  knelt, 
Clasping  her  hands  in  silent  ecstasy. 

On  the  hill-side,  where  still  their  cottage  stands 
('Tis  near  the  upper  falls  in  Lauterhrounn ; 
For  there  I  sheltered  now,  their  frugal  hearth 
Blazing  with  mountain-pine  when  I  appeared, 
And  there,  as  round  they  sate,  I  heard  their  story) 
On  the  hill-side,  among  the  cataracts, 
In  happy  ignorance  the  children  played; 
Alike  unconscious,  through  their  cloudless  day, 
Of  what  they  had  and  had  not;  every  where 
Gathering  rock-flowers;  or,  with  their  utmost  might, 
Loosening  the  fragment  from  the  precipice, 
And,  as  it  tumbled,  listening  for  the  plunge; 
Yet,  as  by  instirfct,  at  the  customed  hour 
Returning;  the  two  eldest,  step  by  step, 
Lifting  along,  and  with  the  tenderest  care, 
Their  infant-brother. 

Once  the  hour  was  past; 

And,  when  she  sought,  she  sought  and  could  not  find ; 
And  when  she  found  —  Where  was  the  little  one? 
Alas,  they  answered  not;  yet  still  she  asked, 
Still  in  her  grief  forgetting. 

With  a  scream, 

Such  as  an  Eagle  sends  forth  when  he  soars, 
A  scream  that  through  the  woods  scatters  dismay, 
The  idiot-boy  looked  up  into  the  sky, 


ITALY.  241 

And  leaped  and  laughed  aloud  and  leaped  again; 

As  if  he  wished  to  follow,  in  its  flight, 

Something  just  gone,  and  gone  from  earth  to  heaven ; 

While  he,  whose  every  gesture,  every  look 

Went  to  the  heart,  for  from  the  heart  it  came, 

He  who  nor  spoke  nor  heard — all  things  to  him, 

Day  after  day,  as  silent  as  the  grave, 

(To  him  unknown  the  melody  of  birds, 

Of  waters  —  and  the  voice  that  should  have  soothed 

His  infant  sorrows,  singing  him  to  sleep) 

Fled  to  her  mantle  as  for  refuge  there, 

And,  as  at  once  o'ercome  with  fear  and  grief, 

Covered  his  head  and  wept.     A  dreadful  thought 

Flashed  thro'  her  hrain.    '  Has  not  some  bird  of  prey, 

Thirsting  to  dip  his  beak  in  innocent  blood  — 

It  must,  it  must  be  so!' — And  so  it  was. 

There  was  an  Eagle  that  had  long  acquired 
Absolute  sway,  the  lord  of  a  domain 
Savage,  sublime ;  nor  from  the  hills  alone 
Gathering  large  tribute,  but  from  every  vale; 
Making  the  ewe,  whene'er  he  deigned  to  stoop, 
Bleat  for  the  lamb.     Great  was  the  recompence 
Assured  to  him  who  laid  the  tyrant  low; 
And  near  his  nest,  in  that  eventful  hour, 
Calmly  and  patiently,  a  hunter  stood, 
A  hunter,  as  it  chanced,  of  old  renown, 
And,  as  it  chanced,  their  father. 

In  the  South 

A  speck  appeared,  enlarging;  and  ere  long, 
As  on  his  journey  to  the  golden  sun, 
Upward  He  came,  ascending  through  the  clouds, 
21  2F 


242  ITALY. 

That,  like  a  dark  and  troubled  sea,  obscured 

The  world  beneath. — '  But  what  is  in  his  grasp  ? 

Ha!  'tis  a  child  —  and  may  it  not  be  ours? 

I  dare  not,  cannot ;  and  yet  why  forbear, 

When,  if  it  lives,  a  cruel  death  awaits  it  ? 

—  May  He  who  winged  the  shaft  when  Tell  stood  forth, 

And  shot  the  apple  from  the  youngling's  head, 

Grant  me  the  strength,  the  courage ! '     As  he  spoke, 

He  aimed,  he  fired;  and  at  his  feet  they  fell, 

The  Eagle  and  the  child — the  child  unhurt  — 

Tho'  such  the  grasp,  not  even  in  death  relinquished. 


THE  ALPS. 

WHO  first  beholds  those  everlasting  clouds, 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  morning,  noon  and  night, 
Still  where  they  were,  steadfast,  immovable; 
Those  mighty  hills,  so  shadowy,  so  sublime, 
As  rather  to  belong  to  Heaven  than  Earth  — 
But  instantly  receives  into  his  soul 
A  sense,  a  feeling  that  he  loses  not, 
A  something  that  informs  him  'tis  an  hour, 
Whence  he  may  date  henceforth  and  for  ever? 
To  me  they  seemed  the  barriers  of  a  World, 
Saying,  Thus  far,  no  further!  and  as  o'er 
The  level  plain  I  travelled  silently, 
Kearing  them  more  and  more,  day  after  day, 
My  wandering  thoughts  my  only  company, 
And  they  before  me  still  —  oft  as  I  looked, 
A  strange  delight  was  mine,  mingled  with  fear, 


x  ITALY.  243 

A  wonder  as  at  things  I  had  not  heard  of! 
And  still  and  still  I  felt  as  if  I  gazed 
For  the  first  time!  —  Great  was  the  tumult  there, 
Deafening  the  din,  when  in  barbaric  pomp 
The  Carthaginian  on  his  march  to  ROME 
Entered  their  fastnesses.     Trampling  the  .  snows, 
The  war-horse  reared;  and  the  towered  elephant 
Upturned  his  trunk  into  the  murky  sky, 
Then  tumbled  headlong,  swallowed  up  and  lost, 
He  and  his  rider. — Now  the  scene  is  changed; 
And  o'er  the  Simplon,  o'er  the  Splugen  winds 
A  path  of  pleasure.     Like  a  silver  zone 
Flung  about  carelessly,  it  shines  afar, 
Catching  the  eye  in  many  a  broken  link, 
In  many  a  turn  and  traverse  as  it  glides ; 
And  oft  above  and  oft  below  appears, 
Seen  o'er  the  wall  by  him  who  journeys  up, 
As  if  it  were  another,  through  the  wild 
Leading  along  he  knows  not  whence  or  whither. 
Yet  through  its  fairy  course,  go  where  it  will, 
The  torrent  stops  it  not,  the  rugged  rock 
Opens  and  lets  it  in ;  and  on  it  runs, 
Winning  its  easy  way  from  clime  to  clime 
Through  glens  locked  up  before. 

Not  such  my  path ! 

Mine  but  for  those,  who,  like  Jean  Jacques,  delight 
In  dizziness,  gazing  and  shuddering  on 
Till  fascination  comes  and  the  brain  turns ! 
Mine,  though  I  judge  but  from  my  ague-fits 
Over  the  Drance,  just  where  the  Abbot  fell, 
The  same  as  Hannibal's. 


244  ITALY. 

But  now  :tis  past, 

That  turbulent  Chaos;  and  the  promised  land 
Lies  at  my  feet  in  all  its  loveliness! 
To  him  who  starts  up  from  a  terrible  dream, 
And  lo  the  sun  is  shining,  and  the  lark 
Singing  aloud  for  joy,  to  him  is  not 
Such  sudden  ravishment  as  now  I  feel 
At  the  first  glimpses  of  fair  Italy. 


COMO. 

I  LOVE  to  sail  along  the  LARIAN  Lake 

Under  the  shore  —  though  not  to  visit  PLINY, 

To  catch  him  musing  in  his  plane-tree  walk, 

Or  fishing,  as  he  might  be,  from  his  window: 

And,  to  deal  plainly,  (may  his  Shade  forgive  me !) 

Could  I  recall  the  ages  past,  and  play 

The  fool  with  Time,  I  should  perhaps  reserve 

My  leisure  for  Catullus  on  his  Lake, 

Though  to  fare  worse,  or  VIRGIL  at  his  farm 

A  little  further  on  the  way  to  MANTUA. 

But  such  things  cannot  be.     So  I  sit  still, 

And  let  the  boatman  shift  his  little  sail, 

His  sail  so  forked  and  so  swallow-like, 

Well  pleased  with  all  that  comes.     The  morning  air 

Plays  on  my  cheek  how  gently,  flinging  round 

A  silvery  gleam;  and  now  the  purple  mists 

Rise  like  a  curtain ;  now  the  sun  looks  out, 

Filling,  o'erflowing  with  his  glorious  light 

This  noble  amphitheatre  of  hills; 


ITALY.  245 

And  now  appear  as  on  a  phosphor-sea 
Numberless  barks,  from  MILAN,  from  PA  VIA; 
Some  sailing  up,  some  down,  and  some  at  rest, 
Lading,  unlading  at  that  small  port-town 
Under  the  promontory  —  its  tall  tower 
And  long  flat  roofs,  just  such  as  GASPAR  drew, 
Caught  by  a  sun-beam  slanting  through  a  cloud; 
A  quay-like  scene,  glittering  and  full  of  life, 
And  doubled  by  reflection. 

What  delight, 

After  so  long  a  sojourn  in  the  wild, 
To  hear  once  more  the  peasant  at  his  work ! 
—  But  in  a  clime  like  this  where  is  he  not? 
Along  the  shores,  among  the  hills  'tis  now 
The  hey-day  of  the  Vintage ;  all  abroad, 
But  most  the  young  and  of  the  gentler  sex, 
Busy  in  gathering ;  all^  among  the  vines, 
Some  on  the  ladder,  and  some  underneath, 
Filling  their  baskets  of  green  wicker-work, 
While  many  a  canzonet  and  frolie  laugh 
Come  thro'  the  leaves;  the  vines  in  light  festoons 
From  tree  to  tree,  the  trees  in  avenues, 
And  every  avenue  a  covered  walk 
Hung  with  black  clusters.     'Tis  enough  to  make 
The  sad  man  merry,  the  benevolent  one 
Melt  into  tears  —  so  general  is  the  joy ! 
While  up  and  down  the  cliffs,  over  the  lake, 
Wains  oxen-drawn  and  panniered  mules  are  seen, 
Laden  with  grapes  and  dropping  rosy  wine. 

Here  I  received  from  thee,  BASILICO, 
One  of  those  courtesies  so  sweet,  so  rare! 
When,  as  I  rambled  through  thy  vineyard-ground 
21* 


246  ITALY. 

On  the  hill-side,  thy  little  son  was  sent, 
Charged  with  a  bunch  almost  as  big  as  he, 
To  press  it  on  the  stranger.     May  thy  vats 
O'erflow,  and  he,  thy  willing  gift-bearer, 
Live  to  become  a  giver;  and,  at  length, 
When  thou  art  full  of  honour  and  would  rest, 
The  staff  of  thine  old  age ! 

In  a  strange  land 

Such  things,  however  trivial,  reach  the  heart, 
And  thro'  the  heart  the  head,  clearing  away 
The  narrow  notions  that  grow  up  at  home, 
And  in  their  place  grafting  Good- Will  to  All. 
At  least  I  found  it  so,  nor  less  at  eve, 
When,  bidden  as  a  lonely  traveller, 
('Twas  by  a  little  boat  that  gave  me  chase 
With  oar  and  sail,  as  homeward-bound  I  crossed 
The  bay  of  TRAMEZZINE,)  right  readily 
I  turned  my  prow  and  followed,  landing  soon 
Where  steps  of  purest  marble  met  the  wave ; 
Where,  through  the  trellises  and  corridors, 
Soft  music  came  as  from  ARMIDA'S  palace, 
Breathing  enchantment  o'er  the  woods  and  waters; 
And  through  a  bright  pavilion,  bright  as  day, 
Forms  such  as  hers  were  flitting,  lost  among 
Such  as  of  old  in  sober  pomp  swept  by, 
Such  as  adorn  the  triumphs  and  the  feasts 
By  PAOLO  painted;  where  a  Fairy-Queen, 
That  night  her  birth-night,  from  her  throne  received 
(Young  as  she  was,  no  floweret  in  her  crown, 
Hyacinth  or  rose,  so  fair  and  fresh  as  she) 
Our  willing  vows,  and  by  the  fountain-side 
Led  in  the  dance,  disporting  as  she  pleased, 


ITALY.  247 

Under  a  starry  sky  —  while  I  looked  on, 
As  in  a  glade  of  CASHMERE  or  SHIRAZ, 
Reclining,  quenching  my  sherbet  in  snow, 
And  reading  in  the  eyes  that  sparkled  round, 
The  thousand  love-adventures  written  there. 

Can  I  forget  —  no  never,  such  a  scene 
So  full  of  witchery.     Night  lingered  still, 
When,  with  a  dying  breeze,  I  left  BELLAGGIO; 
But  the  strain  followed  me ;  and  still  I  saw 
Thy  smile,  ANGELICA;  and  still  I  heard 
Thy  voice  —  once  and  again  bidding  adieu. 


BEKGAMO. 

THE  song  was  one  that  I  had  heard  before, 

But  where  I  knew  not.,.  It  inclined  to  sadness; 

And,  turning  round  from  the  delicious  fare 

My  landlord's  little  daughter  BARBARA 

Had  from  her  apron  just  rolled  out  before  me, 

Figs  and  rock-melons  —  at  the  door  I  saw 

Two  boys  of  lively  aspect.     Peasant-like 

They  were,  and  poorly  clad,  but  not  unskilled; 

With  their  small  voices  and  an  old  guitar 

Winning  their  way  to  my  unguarded  heart 

In  that,  the  only  universal  tongue. 

But  soon  they  changed  the  measure,  entering  on 

A  pleasant  dialogue  of  sweet  and  sour, 

A  war  of  words,  with  looks  and  gestures  waged 

Between  TRAPPANTI  and  his  ancient  dame, 

MONA  LUCILIA.     To  and  fro  it  went; 

While  many  a  titter  on  the  stairs  was  heard, 


248  ITALY. 

And  BARBARA'S  among  them.     When  it  ceased, 
Their  dark  eyes  flashed  no  longer,  yet,  methought, 
In  many  a  glance  as  from  the  soul,  disclosed 
More  than  enough  -to  serve  them.     Far  or  near, 
Few  looked  not  for  their  coming  ere  they  came, 
Few,  when  they  went,  but  looked  till  they  were  gone  ; 
And  not  a  matron,  sitting  at  her  wheel, 
But  could  repeat  their  story.     Twins  they  were, 
And  orphans,  as  I  learnt,  cast  on  the  world; 
Their  parents  lost  in  an  old  ferry-boat 
That,  three  years  since,  last  Martinmas,  went  down, 
Crossing  the  rough  BENACUS.* 

May  they  live 

Blameless  and  happy  —  rich  they  cannot  be, 
Like  him  who,  in  the  days  of  Minstrelsy,  f 
Came  in  a  beggar's  weeds  to  PETRARCH'S  door, 
Asking,  beseeching  for  a  lay  to  sing, 
And  soon  in  silk  (then  such  the  power  of  song) 
Returned  to  thank  him;  or  like  that  old  man, 
Old,  not  in  heart,  who  by  the  torrent-side 
Descending  from  the  TYROL,  as  Night  fell, 
Knocked  at  a  City-gate  at  the  hill-foot, 
The  gate  that  bore  so  long,  sculptured  in  stone, 
An  eagle  on  a  ladder,  and  at  once 
Found  welcome  —  nightly  in  the  bannered  hall 
Tuning  his  harp  to  tales  of  Chivalry 
Before  the  great  MASTING,  and  his  guests,! 
The  three-and-twenty  kings,  by  adverse  fate, 
By  war  or  treason  or  domestic  strife, 


*  Lago  di  Garda.  f  Petrarch,  Epist.  Her.  Sen.  1.  v.  ep.  3. 

See  Note. 


ITALY.  249 

Reft  of  their  kingdoms,  friendless,  shelterless, 
And  living  on  his  bounty. 

But  who  comes. 

Brushing  the  floor  with  what  was  once,  methinks, 
A  hat  of  ceremony  ?     On  he  glides, 
Slip-shod,  ungartered;  his  long  suit  of  black 
Dingy,  thread-bare,  tho',  patch  by  patch,  renewed 
Till  it  has  almost  ceased  to  be  the  same. 
At  length  arrived,  and  with  a  shrug  that  pleads 
*  'Tis  my  necessity ! '  he  stops  and  speaks, 
Screwing  a  smile  into  his  dinnerless  face. 
'Blame  not  a  Poet,  Signor,  for  his  zeal  — 
When  all  are  on  the  wing,  who  would  be  last? 
The  splendour  of  thy  name  has  gone  before  thee; 
And  ITALY  from  sea  to  sea  exults, 
As  well  indeed  she  may !     But  I  transgress. 
He,  who  has  known  the  weight  of  Praise  himself, 
Should  spare  another.'     Saying  so,  he  laid 
His  sonnet,  an  impromptu,  at  my  feet, 
(If  his,  then  PETRARCH  must  have  stolen  it  from  him) 
And  bowed  and  left  me ;  in  his  hollow  hand 
Receiving  my  small  tribute,  a  zecchine, 
Unconsciously,  as  doctors  do  their  fees. 
My  omelet,  and  a  flagon  of  hill-wine, 
Pure  as  the  virgin-spring,  had  happily 
Fled  from  all  eyes;  or,  in  a  waking  dream, 
I  might  have  sat  as  many  a  great  man  has, 
And  many  a  small,  like  him  of  Santillane, 
Bartering  my  bread  and  salt  for  empty  praise. 


250  ITALY. 


ITALY. 

AM  I  in  ITALY?     Is  this  the  Mincius? 
Are  those  the  distant  turrets  of  Verona  ? 
And  shall  I  sup  where  JULIET  at  the  Masque 
Saw  her  loved  MONTAGUE,  and  now  sleeps  by  him? 
Such  questions  hourly  do  I  ask  myself; 
And  not  a  stone,  in  a  cross-way,  inscribed 
'To  Mantua,'  —  'To  Ferrara'  —  but  excites 
Surprise  and  doubt,  and  self-congratulation. 

0  ITALY,  how  beautiful  thou  art  ! 
Yet  I  could  weep  —  for  thou  art  lying,  alas, 
Low  in  the  dust;  and  we  admire  thee  now 
As  we  admire  the  beautiful  in  death. 
Thine  was  a  dangerous  gift,  when  thou  wert  born, 
The  gift  of  Beauty.     Would  thou  hadst  it  not; 
Or  wert  as  once,  awing  the  caitiffs  vile 
That  now  beset  thee,  making  thee  their  slave! 
"Would  they  had  loved  thee  less,  or  feared  thee  more  ! 
—  But  why  despair  ?     Twice  hast  thou  lived  already  ; 
Twice  shone  among  the  nations  of  the  world, 
As  the  sun  shines  among  the  lesser  lights 
Of  heaven;  and  shalt  again.     The  hour  shall  come, 
When  they  who  think  to  bind  the  ethereal  spirit, 
Who,  like  the  eagle  cowering  o'er  his  prey, 
Watch  with  quick  eye,  and  strike  and  strike  again 
If  but  a  sinew  vibrate,  shall  confess 
Their  wisdom  folly.     Even  now  the  flame 
Bursts  forth  where  once  it  burnt  so  gloriously, 
And,  dying,  left  a  splendour  like  the  day, 


ITALY.  251 

That  like  the  day  diffused  itself,  and  still 
Blesses  the  earth,. —  the  light  of  genius,  virtue, 
Greatness  in  thought  and  act,  contempt  of  death, 
God-like  example.     Echoes  that  have  slept 
Since  ATHENS,  LACED^EMON,  were  Themselves, 
Since  men  invoked  '  by  those  in  MARATHON  ! ' 
Awake  along  the  AEGEAN ;  and  the  dead, 
They  of  that  sacred  shore,  have  heard  the  call, 
And  thro'  the  ranks,  from  wing  to  wing,  are  seen 
Moving  as  once  they  were  —  instead  of  rage 
Breathing  deliberate  valour. 


COLL'  ALTO. 

"IN  this  neglected  mirror  (the  broad  frame 

Of  massy  silver  serves  to  testify 

That  many  a  noble  matron  of  the  house 

Has  sat  before  it)  once,  alas,  was  seen 

What  led  to  many  sorrows.     From  that  time 

The  bat  came  hither  for  a  sleeping  place; 

And  he,  that  cursed  another  in  his  heart, 

Said,  'Be  thy  dwelling,  thro'  the  day  and  night, 

Shunned  like  COLL' ALTO.'"  —  'Twas  in  that  old  Pile, 

Which  flanks  the  cliff  with  its  grey  battlements 

Flung  here  and  there,  and,  like  an  eagle's  nest, 

Hangs  in  the  TREVISAN,  that  thus  the  Steward, 

Shaking  his  locks,  the  few  that  Time  had  left, 

Addressed  me,  as  we  entered  what  was  called 

'My  Lady's  Chamber.'     On  the  walls,  the  chairs, 

Much  yet  remained  of  the  rich  tapestry; 

Much  of  the  adventures  of  SIR  LANCELOT 


252  ITALY. 

In  the  green  glades  of  some  enchanted  wood. 

The  toilet-table  was  of  silver  wrought, 

Florentine  Art,  when  Florence  was  renowned; 

A  gay  confusion  of  the  elements, 

Dolphins  and  boys,  and  shells  and  fruits  and. flowers: 

And  from  the  ceiling,  in  his  gilded  cage, 

Hung  a  small  bird  of  curious  workmanship, 

That,  when  his  Mistress  bade  him,  would  unfold 

(So  says  the  babbling  Dame,  Tradition,  there) 

His  emerald-wings,  and  sing  and  sing  again 

The  song  that  pleased  her.     While  I  stood  and  looked, 

A  gleam  of  day  yet  lingering  in  the  West, 

The  Steward  went  on.     "  She  had  ('tis  now  long  since) 

A  gentle  serving-maid,  the  fair  CRISTINE, 

Fair  as  a  lily,  and  as  spotless  too; 

None  so  admired,  beloved.     They  had  grown  up 

As  play-fellows ;  and  some  there  were,  that  said, 

Some  that  knew  much,  discoursing  of  CHISTIXE, 

'  She  is  not  what  she  seems.'     When  unrequired, 

She  would  steal  forth ;  her  custom,  her  delight, 

To  wander  thro'  and  thro'  an  ancient  grove 

Self-planted  half-way  down,  losing  herself 

Like  one  in  love  with  sadness;  and  her  veil 

And  vesture  white,  seen  ever  in  that  place, 

Ever  as  surely  as  the  hours  came  round, 

Among  those  reverend  trees,  gave  her  below 

The  name  of  The  White  Lady.     But  the  day 

Is  gone,  and  I  delay  thee. 

In  that  chair 

The  Countess,  as  it  might  be  now,  was  sitting, 
The  gentle  serving-maid,  the  fair  CRISTINE, 
Combing  her  golden  hair;  and  thro'  this  door 


I* 

"**  , 


•-*1 


-., 

'  ^g-  •  .  ^»  « 


• 


ITALY.  253 

The  Count,  her  lord,  was  hastening,  called  away 
By  letters  of  great  urgency  to  VENICE; 
When  in  the  glass  she  saw,  as  she  believed, 
('Twas  an  illusion  of  the  Evil  One  — 
Some  say  he  came  and  crossed  it  at  the  time) 
A  smile,  a  glance  at  parting,  given  and  answered, 
That  turned  her  blood  to  gall.     That  very  night 
The  deed  was  done.     That  night,  ere  yet  the  Moon 
Was  up  on  Monte  Calvo,  and  the  wolf 
Baying  as  still  he  does,  (oft  is  he  heard, 
An  hour  or  more,  by  the  old  turret-clock,) 
They  led  her  forth,  the  unhappy  lost  CKISTINE, 
Helping  her  down  in  her  distress  —  to  die. 

"No  blood  was  spilt;  no  instrument  of  death 
Lurked  —  or  stood  forth,  declaring  its  bad  purpose; 
Nor  was  a  hair  of  her  unblemished  head 
Hurt  in  that  hour.     Fresh  as  a  flower  just  blown, 
And  warm  with  life,  her  youthful  pulses  playing, 
She  was  walled  up  within  the  Castle-wall. 
The  wall  itself  was  hollowed  secretly; 
Then  closed  again,  and  done  to  line  and  rule. 

Would'st  thou  descend? 'Tis  in  a  darksome  vault 

Under  the  Chapel :  and  there  nightly  now, 
As  in  the  narrow  niche,  when  smooth  and  fair, 
And  as  if  nothing  had  been  done  or  thought, 
The  stone-work  rose  before  her,  till  the  light 
Glimmered  and  went  —  there  nightly  at  that  hour, 
(Thou  smil'st,  and  would  it  were  an  idle  tale !) 
In  her  white  veil  and  vesture  white  she  stands 
Shuddering  —  her  eyes  uplifted,  and  her  hands 
Joined  as  in  prayer ;  then,  like  a  Blessed  Soul 
Bursting  the  tomb,  springs  forward,  and  away 
22 


254  ITALY. 

Flies  o'er  the  woods  and  mountains.     Issuing  forth, 
The  hunter  meets  her  in  his  hunting-track ; 
The  shepherd  on  the  heath,  starting,  exclaims 
(For  still  she  bears  the  name  she  bore  of  old) 
'  'Tis  the  White  Lady ! '" 


VENICE. 

THEKE  is  a  glorious  Cjty  in  the  Sea. 

The  Sea  is  in  the  broad,  the  narrow  streets, 

Ebbing  and  flowing;  and  the  salt  sea- weed 

Clings  to  the  marble  of  her  palaces. 

No  track  of  men,  no  footsteps  to  and  fro, 

Lead  to  her  gates.     The  path  lies  o'er  the  Sea, 

Invisible;  and  from  the  land  we  went, 

As  to  a  floating  City  —  steering  in, 

And  gliding  up  her  streets  as  in  a  dream, 

So  smoothly,  silently — by  many  a  dome, 

Mosque-like,  and  many  a  stately  portico, 

The  statues  ranged  along  an  azure  sky; 

By  many  a  pile  in  more  than  Eastern  pride, 

Of  old  the  residence  of  merchant-kings; 

The  fronts  of  some,  though  Time  had  shattered  them, 

Still  glowing  with  the  richest  hues  of  art, 

As  though  the  wealth  within  them  had  run  o'er. 

Thither  JE  came,  and  in  a  wondrous  Ark, 
(That,  long  before  we  slipt  our  cable,  rang 
As  with  the  voices  of  all  living  things) 
From  PADUA,  where  the  stars  are,  night  by  night 
Watched  from  the  top  of  an  old  dungeon-tower, 


ITALY.  255 

Whence  blood  ran  once,  the  tower  of  Ezzelin  — 

Not  as  he  watched  them,  when  he  read  his  fate 

And  shuddered.     But  of  him  I  thought  not  then, 

Him  or  his  horoscope;  far,  far  from  me 

The  forms  of  Guilt  and  Fear;  tho'  some  were  there, 

Sitting  among  us  round  the  cabin-board, 

Some  who,  like  him,  had  cried,  <  Spill  blood  enough ! ' 

And  could  shake  long  at  shadows.     They  had  played 

Their  parts  at  PADUA,  and  were  floating  home, 

Careless  and  full  of  mirth ;  to-morrow  a  day 

Not  in  their  Calendar. — Who  in  a  strain 

To  make  the  hearer  fold  his  arms  and  sigh, 

Sings,  *  Caro,  Carol' — 'Tis  the  Prima  Donna, 

And  to  her  monkey,  smiling  in  his  face. 

Who,  as  transported,  cries,  '  Brava  !  Ancora ! ' 

'Tis  a  grave  personage,  an  old  macaw, 

Perched  on  her  shoulder.  -^-  But  who  leaps  ashore, 

And  with  a  shout  urges  the  lagging  mules ; 

Then  climbs  a  tree  that  overhangs  the  stream, 

And,  like  an  acorn,  drops  on  deck  again? 

'Tis  he  who  speaks  not,  stirs  not,  but  we  laugh; 

That  child  of  fun  and  frolic,  Arlecchino. 

And  mark  their  Poet  —  with  what  emphasis 

He  prompts  the  young  Soubrette,  conning  her  part ! 

Her  tongue  plays  truant,  and  he  raps  his  box, 

And  prompts  again ;  for  ever  looking  round 

As  if  in  search  for  subjects  for  his  wit, 

His  satire;  and  as  often  whispering 

Things,  though  unheard,  not  unimaginable. 

Had  I  thy  pencil,  CRABBE,  (when  thou  hast  done, 
Late  may  it  be  .  .  it  will,  like  PROSPERO'S  staff, 
Be  buried  fifty  fathoms  in  the  earth,) 


256  ITALY. 

I  would  portray  the  Italian  —  Now  I  cannot. 

Subtle,  discerning,  eloquent,  the  slave 

Of  Love,  of  Hate,  for  ever  in  extremes: 

Gentle  when  unprovoked,  easily  won, 

But  quick  in  quarrel  —  through  a  thousand  shades 

His  spirit  flits,  cameleon-like ;  and  mocks' 

The  eye  of  the  observer. 

Gliding  on, 

At  length  we  leave  the  river  for  the  sea. 
At  length  a  voice  aloft  proclaims  '  Venezia ! ' 
And,  as  called  forth,  She  comes. — A  few  in  fear, 
Flying  away  from  him  whose  boast  it  was,* 
That  the  grass  grew  not  where  his  horse  had  trod, 
Gave  birth  to  VENICE.     Like  the  water-fowl, 
They  built  their  nests  among  the  ocean-waves; 
And  where  the  sands  were  shifting,  as  the  wind 
Blew  from  the  north  or  south  —  where  they  that  camts, 
Had  to  make  sure  the  ground  they  stood  upon, 
Rose,  like  an  exhalation  from  the  deep, 
A  vast  Metropolis,  with  glistening  spires, 
With  theatres,  basilicas  adorned; 
A  scene  of  light  and  glory,  a  dominion, 
That  has  endured  the  longest  among  men. 

And  whence  the  talisman,  whereby  she  rose, 
Towering  ?     'Twas  found  there  in  the  barren  sea. 
Want  led  to  Enterprise ;  and,  far  or  near, 
Who  met  not  the  Venetian !  —  now  among 
The  JEaEAN  Isles,  steering  from  port  to  port, 
Landing  and  bartering;  now,  no  stranger  there, 
In  CAIRO,  or  without  the  eastern  gate, 

*  ATTILA. 


ITALY.  257 

Ere  yet  the  Cafila*  came,  listening  to  hear 

Its  bells  approaching  from  the  Red-Sea  coast; 

Then  on  the  Euxine,  and  that  smaller  Sea 

Of  Azoph,  in  close  converse  with  the  Russ, 

And  Tartar ;  on  his  lowly  deck  receiving 

Pearls  from  the  Persian  Gulf,  gems  from  Golcond; 

Eyes  brighter  yet,  that  shed  the  light  of  love, 

From  Georgia,  from  Circassia.     Wandering  round, 

When  in  the  rich  bazaar  he  saw,  displayed, 

Treasures  from  climes  unknown,  he  asked  and  learnt, 

And,  travelling  slowly  upward,  drew  ere  long 

From  the  well-head,  supplying  all  below; 

Making  the  Imperial  City  of  the  East, 

Herself,  his  tributary. 

If  we  turn 

To  those  black  forests,  where,  thro'  many  an  age, 
Night  without  day,  no  axe  the  silence  broke, 
Or  seldom,  save  where  Rhine  or  Danube  rolled; 
Where  o'er  the  narrow  glen  a  castle  hangs, 
And,  like  the  wolf  that  hungered  at  his  door, 
The  baron  lived  by  rapine  —  there  we  meet, 
In  warlike  guise,  the  Caravan  from  VENICE; 
When  on  its  march,  now  lost  and  now  beheld, 
A  glittering  file  (the  trumpet  heard,  the  scout 
Sent  and  recalled)  but  at  a  city-gate 
All  gaiety,  and  looked  for  ere  it  comes; 
Winning  regard  with  all  that  can  attract, 
Cages,  whence  every  wild  cry  of  the  desert, 
Jugglers,  stage-dancers.     Well  might  CHARLEMAIN, 
And  his  brave  peers,  each  with  his  visor  up, 

*  A  Caravan. 

22*  2n 


258  ITALY. 

On  their  long  lances  lean  and  gaze  awhile, 
When  the  Venetian  to  their  eyes  disclosed 
The  wonders  of  the  East !     Well  might  they  then 
Sigh  for  new  conquests! 

Thus  did  VENICE  rise, 

Thus  flourish,  till  the  unwelcome  tidings  came, 
That  in  the  TAGUS  had  arrived  a  fleet 
From  INDIA,  from  the  region  of  the  Sun, 
Fragrant  with  spices — that  a  way  was  found, 
A  channel  opened,  and  the  golden  stream 
Turned  to  enrich  another.     Then  she  felt 
Her  strength  departing,  yet  awhile  maintained 
Her  state,  her  splendour ;  till  a  tempest  shook 
All  things  most  held  in  honour  among  men, 
All  that  the  giant  with  the  scythe  had  spared, 
To  their  foundations,  and  at  once  she  fell; 
She  who  had  stood  yet  longer  than  the  last 
Of  the  Four  Kingdoms  —  who,  as  in  an  Ark, 
Had  floated  down,  amid  a  thousand  wrecks, 
Uninjured,  from  the  Old  World  to  the  New, 
From  the  last  glimpse  of  civilized  life  —  to  where 
Light  shone  again,  and  with  the  blaze  of  noon. 

Through  many  an  age  in  the  mid-sea  she  dwelt, 
From  her  retreat  calmly  contemplating 
The  changes  of  the  Earth,  herself  unchanged. 
Before  her  passed,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 
The  mightiest  of  the  mighty.     What  are  these, 
Clothed  in  their  purple?     O'er  the  globe  they  fling 
Their  monstrous  shadows;  and,  while  yet  we  speak, 
Phantom-like,  vanish  with  a  dreadful  scream ! 
What  —  but  the  last  that  styled  themselves  the  Caesars? 
And  who  in  long  array  (look  where  they  come; 


ITALY.  259 

Their  gestures  menacing  so  far  and  wide) 

Wear  the  green  turban  and  the  heron's  plume? 

Who — but  the  Caliphs?  followed  fast  by  shapes 

As  new  and  strange  —  Emperor,  and  King,  and  Czar, 

And  Soldan,  each,  with  a  gigantic  stride, 

Trampling  on  all  the  flourishing  works  of  peace 

To  make  his  greatness  greater,  and  inscribe 

His  name  in  blood  —  some,  men  of  steel,  steel-clad: 

Others,  nor  long,  alas,  the  interval, 

In  light  and  gay  attire,  with  brow  serene 

Wielding  Jove's  thunder,  scattering  sulphurous  fire 

Mingled  with  darkness :  and,  among  the  rest, 

Lo,  one  by  one,  passing  continually, 

Those  who  assume  a  sway  beyond  them  all; 

Men  grey  with  age,  each  in  a  triple  crown, 

And  in  his  tremulous  hands  grasping  the  keys 

That  can  alone,  as  he  would  signify, 

Unlock  Heaven's  gate. 


LUIGL 

HAPPY  is  he  who  loves  companionship, 

And  lights  on  thee,  LUIGI.     Thee  I  found, 

Playing  at  MORA  on  the  cabin-roof 

With  Punchinello. — 'Tis  a  game  to  strike 

Fire  from  the  coldest  heart.     What  then  from  thine? 

And,  ere  the  twentieth  throw,  I  had  resolved, 

Won  by  thy  looks.     Thou  wert  an  honest  lad; 

Wert  generous,  grateful,  not  without  ambition. 

Had  it  depended  on  thy  will  alone, 

Thou  wouldst  have  numbered  in  thy  family 


260  ITALY. 

At  least  six  Doges  and  the  first  in  fame. 

But  that  was  not  to  be.     In  thee  I  saw 

The  last,  if  not  the  least,  of  a  long  line, 

Who  in  their  forest,  for  three  hundred  years, 

Had  lived  and  laboured,  cutting,  charring  wood; 

Discovering  where  they  were,  to  those  astray, 

By  the  re-echoing  stroke,  the  crash,  the  fall, 

Or  the  blue  wreath  that  travelled  slowly  up 

Into  the  sky.-    Thy  nobler  destinies 

Led  thee  away  to  justle  in  the  crowd; 

And  there  I  found  thee  —  trying  once  again, 

What  for  thyself  thou  hadst  prescribed  so  oft, 

A  change  of  air  and  diet  —  once  again 

Crossing  the  sea,  and  springing  to  the  shore 

As  though  thou  knewest  where  to  dine  and  sleep. 

First  in  BOLOGNA  didst  thou  plant  thyself, 

Serving  behind  a  Cardinal's  gouty  chair, 

Listening  and  oft  replying,  jest  for  jest ; 

Then  in  FERRARA,  every  thing  by  turns, 

So  great  thy  genius,  and  so  Proteus-like !  ' 

Now  serenading  in  a  lover's  train, 

And  measuring  swords  with  his  antagonist; 

Now  carving,  cup-bearing  in  halls  of  state; 

And  now  a  guide  to  the  lorn  traveller, 

A  very  Cicerone — yet,  alas, 

How  unlike  him  fulmined  in  old  ROME  ! 

Dealing  out  largely  in  exchange  for  pence 

Thy  scraps  of  Knowledge!  —  thro'  the  grassy  street 

Leading,  explaining  —  pointing  to  the  bars 

Of  TASSO'S  dungeon,  and  the  latin  verse, 

Graven  in  the  stone,  that  yet  denotes  the  door 

Of  ARIOSTO. 


ITALY.  261 

Many  a  year  is  gone 

Since  on  the  RHINE  we  parted;  yet,  methinks, 
I  can  recall  thee  to  the  life,  LUIGI, 
In  our  long  journey  ever  by  my  side ; 
Thy  locks  jet-black,  and  clustering  round  a  face 
Open  as  day  and  full  of  manly  daring. 
Thou  hadst  a  hand,  a  heart  for  all  that  came, 
Herdsman  or  pedlar,  monk  or  muleteer: 
And  few  there  were,  that  met  thee  not  with  smiles. 
Mishap  passed  o'er  thee  like  a  summer-cloud. 
Cares  thou  hadst  none ;  and  they,  that  stood  to  hear  thee, 
Caught  the  infection  and  forgot  their  own. 
Nature  conceived  thee  in  her  merriest  mood, 
Her  happiest  —  not  a  speck  was  in  the  sky; 
And  at  thy  birth  the  cricket  chirped,  LuiGI, 
Thine  a  perpetual  voice  —  at  every  turn 
A  larum  to  the  echo.     In  a  clime, 
Where  all  were  gay,  none  were  so  gay  as  thou; 
Thou,  like  a  babe,  hushed  only  by  thy  slumbers; 
Up  hill  and  down,  morning  and  noon  and  night, 
Singing  or  talking;  singing  to  thyself 
When  none  gave  ear,  but  to  the  listener  talking. 


ST.  MARK'S  PLACE. 

OVER  how  many  tracts,  vast,  measureless, 

Ages  on  ages  roll,  and  none  appear 

Save  the  wild  hunter  ranging  for  his  prey; 

While  on  this  spot  of  earth,  the  work  of  man, 

How  much  has  been  transacted !     Emperors,  Popes, 

Warriors,  from  far  and  wide,  laden  with  spoil, 


262  ITALY. 

Landing,  have  here  performed  their  several  parts, 
Then  left  the  stage  to  others.     Not  a  stone 
In  the  broad  pavement,  but  to  him  who  has 
An  eye,  an  ear  for  the  Inanimate  World, 
Tells  of  Past  Ages. 

In  that  temple-porch 

(The  brass  is  gone,  the  porphyry  remains,) 
Did  BARBAROSSA  fling  his  mantle  off, 
And,  kneeling,  on  his  neck  receive  the  foot 
Of  the  proud  Pontiff — thus  at  last  consoled 
For  flight,  disguise,  and  many  an  aguish  shake 
On  his  stone  pillow.     In  that  temple-porch, 
Old  as  he  was,  so  near  his  hundredth  year, 
And  blind — his  eyes  put  out  —  did  DANDOLO 
Stand  forth,  displaying  on  his  crown  the  cross. 
There  did  he  stand,  erect,  invincible, 
Tho'  wan  his  cheeks,  and  wet  with  many  tears, 
For  in  his  prayers  he  had  been  weeping  much; 
And  now  the  pilgrims  and  the  people  wept 
With  admiration,  saying  in  their  hearts, 
"Surely  those  aged  limbs  have  need  of  rest!" 
—  There  did  he  stand,  with  his  old  armour  on, 
Ere,  gonfalon  in  hand,  that  streamed  aloft, 
As  conscious  of  its  glorious  destiny, 
So  soon  to  float  o'er  mosque  and  minaret, 
He  sailed  away,  five  hundred  gallant  ships, 
Their  lofty  sides  hung  with  emblazoned  shields, 
Following  his  track  to  fame.     He  went  to  die; 
But  of  his  trophies  four  arrived  ere  long, 
Snatched  from  destruction  —  the  four  steeds  divine, 
That  strike  the  ground,  resounding  with  their  feet, 
And  from  their  nostrils  snort  ethereal  flame 


ITALY.  263 

Over  that  very  portal — in  the  place 
Where  in  an  after-time,  beside  the  Doge, 
Sate  one  yet  greater,*  one  whose  verse  shall  live, 
When  the  wave  rolls  o'er  VENICE.     High  he  sate, 
High  over  all,  close  by  the  ducal  chair, 
At  the  right  hand  of  his  illustrious  Host, 
Amid  the"  noblest  daughters  of  the  realm, 
Their  beauty  shaded  from  the  western  ray 
By  many-coloured  hangings ;  while,  beneath, 
Knights  of  all  nations,  some  of  fair  renown 
From  ENGLAND,  from  victorious  EDWARD'S  court, 
Their  lances  in  the  rest,  charged  for  the  prize. 

Here,  among  other  pageants,  and  how  oft 
It  met  the  eye,  borne  through  the  gazing  crowd, 
As  if  returning  to  console  the  least, 
Instruct  the  greatest,  did  the  Doge  go  round; 
Now  in  a  chair  of  state,  now  on  his  bier. 
They  were  his  first  appearance,  and  his  last. 

The  sea,  that  emblem  of  uncertainty, 
Changed  not  so  fast  for  many  and  many  an  age, 
As  this  small  spot.     To-day  'twas  full  of  masks ; 
And  lo,  the  madness  of  the  Carnival, 
The  monk,  the  nun,  the  holy  legate  masked ! 
To-morrow  came  the  scaffold  and  the  wheel ; 
And  he  died  there,  by  torch-light,  bound  and  gagged, 
Whose  name  and  crime  they  knew  not.     Underneath 
Where  the  Archangel,  as  alighted  there, 
Blesses  the  City  from  the  topmost  tower, 
His  arms  extended  —  there,  in  monstrous  league, 
Two  phantom-shapes  were  sitting,  side  by  side, 

*  PETRARCH. 


264  ITALY. 

Or  up,  and,  as  in  sport,  chasing  each  other ; 
Horror  and  Mirth.     Both  vanished  in  one  hour ! 
But  Ocean  only,  when  again  he  claims 
His  ancient  rule,  shall  wash  away  their  footsteps. 

Enter  the  Palace  by  the  marble  stairs 
Down  which  the  grizzly  head  of  old  FALIER 
Rolled  from  the  block.     Pass  onward  thro'  the  hall, 
Where,  among  those  drawn  in  their  ducal  robes, 
But  one  is  wanting  —  where,  thrown  off  in  heat, 
A  brief  inscription  on  the  Doge's  chair 
Led  to  another  on  the  wall  as  brief; 
And  thou  wilt  track  them  —  wilt  from  rooms  of  state, 
Where  kings  have  feasted,  and  the  festal  song 
Rang  through  the  fretted  roof,  cedar  and  gold, 
Step  into  darkness;  and  be  told,  "Twas  here, 
Trusting,  deceived,  assembled  but  to  die, 
To  take  a  long  embrace  and  part  again, 
CARRARA  and  his  valiant  sons  were  slain; 
He  first  —  then  they,  whose  only  crime  had  been 

Struggling  to  save  their  Father. Thro'  that  door, 

So  soon  to  cry,  smiting  his  brow,  '  I  am  lost ! ' 
Was  with  all  courtesy,  all  honour,  shown 

The  great  and  noble  captain,  CARMAGNOLA. 

That  deep  descent  (thou  canst  not  yet  discern 

Aught  as  it  is)  leads  to  the  dripping  vaults 

Under  the  flood,  where  light  and  warmth  were  never! 

Leads  to  a  covered  Bridge,  the  Bridge  of  Sighs; 

And  to  that  fatal  closet  at  the  foot, 

Lurking  for  prey,  which,  when  a  victim  came, 

Grew  less  and  less,  contracting  to  a  span; 

An  iron-door,  urged  onward  by  a  screw, 

Forcing  out  life. But  let  us  to  the  roof, 


ITALY.  265 

And,  -when  thou  hast  surveyed  the  sea,  the  land, 

Visit  the  narrow  cells  that  cluster  there, 

As  in  a  place  of  tombs.     There  burning  suns, 

Day  after  day,  beat  unrelentingly; 

Turning  all  things  to  dust,  and  scorching  up 

The  brain,  till  Reason  fled,  and  the  wild  yell 

And  wilder  laugh  burst  out  on  every  side, 

Answering  each  other  as  in  mockery ! " 

Few  Houses  of  the  size  were  better  filled; 
Though  many  came  and  left  it  in  an  hour. 
'Most  nights,'  so  said  the  good  old  Nicolo, 
(For  three-and-thirty  years  his  uncle  kept 
The  water-gate  below,  but  seldom  spoke, 
Though  much  was  on  his  mind,)  'most  nights  arrived 
The  prison-boat,  that  boat  with  many  oars, 
And  bore  away  as  to  the  Lower  World, 
Disburdening  in  the  Canal  ORFANO, 
That  drowning-place,  where  never  net  was  thrown, 
Summer  or  Winter,  death  the  penalty; 
And  where  a  secret,  pnce  deposited, 
Lay  till  the  waters  should  give  up  their  dead.' 

Yet  what  so  gay  as  VENICE?     Every  gale 
Breathed  music !  and  who  flocked  not,  while  she  reigned, 
To  celebrate  her  Nuptials  with  the  Sea; 
To  wear  the  mask,  and  mingle  in  the  crowd 
With  Greek,  Armenian,  Persian  —  night  and  day 
(There,  and  there  only,  did  the  hour  stand  still) 
Pursuing  through  her  thousand  labyrinths 
The  Enchantress  Pleasure ;  realizing  dreams 
The  earliest,  happiest — for  a  tale  to  catch 
Credulous  ears,  and  hold  young  hearts  in  chains, 

Had  only  to  begin,  'There  lived  in  VENICE' 

23  2i 


266  ITALY. 

( Who  were  the  Six  we  supped  with  Yesternight  ? '  * 
'Kings,  one  and  all!     Thou  couldst  not  but  remark 
The  style  and  manner  of  the  Six  that  served  them.' 

'  Who  answered  me  just  now  ?     Who,  when  I  said, 
"  'Tis  nine,"  turned  round  and  said  so  solemnly, 

"  Signor,  he  died  at  nine  ! " '  'Twas  the  Armenian  ; 

The  mask  that  follows  thee,  go  where  thou  wilt.' 

'But  who  moves  there,  alone  among  them  all?' 
'The  Cypriot.     Ministers  from  distant  Courts 
Beset  his  doors,  long  ere  his  rising-hour; 
His  the  Great  Secret !     Not  the  golden  house 
Of  Nero,  nor  those  fahled  in  the  East, 
Rich  though  they  were,  so  wondrous  rich  as  his ! 
Two  dogs,  coal-black,  in  collars  of  pure  gold, 
Walk  in  his  footsteps — Who  but  his  familiars? 
They  walk,  and  cast  no  shadow  in  the  sun ! 

'And  mark  Him  speaking.     They,  that  listen,  stand 
As  if  his  tongue  dropped  honey;  yet  his  glance 
None  can  endure !     He  looks  nor  young  nor  old ; 
And  at  a  tourney,  where  I  sat  and  saw, 
A  very  child  (full  threescore  years  are  gone) 
Borne  on  my  father's  shoulder  through  the  crowd, 
He  looked  not  otherwise.     Where'er  he  stops, 
Tho'  short  the  sojourn,  on  his  chamber-wall, 
'Mid  many  a  treasure  gleaned  from  many  a  clime, 
His  portrait  hangs — but  none  must  notice  it; 
For  TITIAN  glows  in  every  lineament, 
(Where  is  it  not  inscribed,  The  work  is  his !) 
And  TITIAN  died  two  hundred  years  ago.' 
—  Such  their  discourse.     Assembling  in  St.  Mark's, 
All  nations  met  as  on  enchanted  ground! 

*  See  Note. 


ITALY.  267 

What  tho'  a  strange  mysterious  Power  was  there, 
Moving  throughout,  subtle,  invisible, 
And  universal  as  the  air  they  breathed; 
A  Power  that  never  slumbered,  nor  forgave, 
All  eye,  all  ear,  no  where  and  every  where, 
Entering  the  closet  and  the  sanctuary, 
No  place  of  refuge  for  the  Doge  himself; 
Most  present  when  least  thought  of — nothing  dropt 
In  secret,  when  the  heart  was  on  the  lips, 
Nothing  in  feverish  sleep,  but  instantly 
Observed  and  judged — a  Power,  that  if  but  named 
In  casual  converse,  be  it  where  it  might, 
The  speaker  lowered  but  once  his  eyes,  his  voice, 

And  pointed  upward  as  to  God  in  Heaven 

What  tho'  that  Power  was  there,  he  who  lived  thus, 

Pursuing  Pleasure,  lived  as  if  it  were  not. 

But  let  him  in  the  midnight  air  indulge 

A  word,  a  thought  against  the  laws  of  VENICE, 

And  in  that  hour  he  vanished^from  the  earth ! 


THE  GONDOLA. 

BOY,  call  the  Gondola;  the  sun  is  set. 

It  came,  and  we  embarked;  but  instantly, 
As  at  the  waving  of  a  magic  wand, 
Though  she  had  stept  on  board  so  light  of  foot, 
So  light  of  heart,  laughing  she  knew  not  why, 
Sleep  overcame  her;  on  my  arm  she  slept. 
From  time  to  time  I  waked  her;  but  the  boat 
Hocked  her  to  sleep  again.     The  moon  was  now 


268  ITALY. 

Rising  full-orbed,  but  broken  by  a  cloud. 

The  wind  was  hushed,  and  the  sea  mirror-like. 

A  single  zephyr,  as  enamoured,  played 

With  her  loose  tresses,  and  drew  more  and  more 

Her  veil  across  her  bosom.     Long  I  lay 

Contemplating  that  face  so  beautiful, 

That  rosy  mouth,  that  cheek  dimpled  with  smiles, 

That  neck  but  half-concealed,  whiter  than  snow. 

'Twas  the  sweet  slumber  of  her  early  age. 

I  looked  and  looked,  and  felt  a  flush  of  joy 

I  would  express  but  cannot.     Oft  I  wished 

Gently  -  -  by  stealth  -  -  to  drop  asleep  myself, 

And  to  incline  yet  lower  that  sleep  might  come; 

Oft  closed  my  eyes  as  in  forgetfulness. 

?Twas  all  in  vain.     Love  would  not  let  me  rest. 

But  how  delightful  when  at  length  she  waked! 
When,  her  light  hair  adjusting,  and  her  veil 
So  rudely  scattered,  she  resumed  her  place 
Beside  me;  and,  as  gaily  as  before, 
Sitting  unconsciously  nearer  and  nearer, 
Poured  out  her  innocent  mind! 

So,  nor  long  since, 

Sung  a  Venetian;  and  his  lay  of  love,* 
Dangerous  and  sweet,  charmed  VENICE.     For  myself, 
(Less  fortunate,  if  Love  be  Happiness) 
No  curtain  drawn,  no  pulse  beating  alarm, 
I  went  along  beneath  the  silent  moon; 
Thy  square,  ST.  MARK,  thy  churches,  palaces, 
Glittering  and  frost-like,  and,  as  day  drew  on, 
Melting  away,  an  emblem  of  themselves. 

*  La  Biondina  in  Gondoletta. 


ITALY.  269 

Those  Porches  passed,  thro'  which  the  water-breeze 
Plays,  though  no  longer  on  the  noble  forms 
That  moved  there,  sable-vested  —  and  the  Quay, 
Silent,  grass-grown  —  adventurer-like  I  launched 
Into  the  deep,  ere  long  discovering 
Isles  such  as  cluster  in  the  Southern  seas, 
All  verdure.     Every  where,  from  bush  and  brake, 
The  musky  odour  of  the  serpents  came ; 
Their  slimy  track  across  the  woodman's  path 
Bright  in  the  moonshine;  and,  as  round  I  went, 
Dreaming  of  GREECE,  whither  the  waves  were  gliding, 
I  listened  to  the  venerable  pines 
Then  in  close  converse,  and,  if  right  I  guessed, 
Delivering  many  a  message  to  the  Winds, 
In  secret  for  their  kindred  on  Mount  IDA. 

Nor  when  again  in  VENICE,  when  again 
In  that  strange  place,  so  stirring  and  so  still, 
Where  nothing  comes  to  drown  the  human  voice 
But  music,  or  the  dashing  of  tlxe  tide, 
Ceased  I  to  wander.     Now  a  JESSICA 
Sung  to  her  lute,  her  signal  as  she  sat 
At  her  half-opened  window.     Then,  methought, 
A  serenade  broke  silence,  breathing  hope 
Thro'  walls  of  stone,  and  torturing  the  proud  heart 
Of  some  PRIULI.     Once,  we  could  not  err, 
(It  was  before  an  old  Palladian  house, 
As  between  night  and  day  we  floated  by) 
A  Gondolier  lay  singing;  and  he  sung, 
As  in  the  time  when  VENICE  was  herself, 
Of  TANCRED  and  ERMINIA.     On  our  oars 
We  rested ;  and  the  verse  was  verse  divine  ! 
We  could  not  err  —  Perhaps  he  was  the  last  — 
23* 


270  ITALY. 

For  none  took  up  the  strain,  none  answered  him ; 
And,  when  he  ceased,  he  left  upon  my  ear 
A  something  like  the  dying  voice  of  VENICE  ! 

The  moon  went  down;  and  nothing  now  was  seen 
Save  where  the  lamp  of  a  Madonna  shone 
Faintly  —  or  heard,  but  when  he  spoke,  who  stood 
Over  the  lantern  at  the  prow  and  cried, 
Turning  the  corner  of  some  reverend  pile, 
Some  school  or  hospital  of  old  renown, 
Tho'  haply  none  were  coming,  none  were  near, 
'Hasten  or  slacken.*'     But  at  length  Night  fled; 
And  with  her  fled,  scattering,  the  sons  of  Pleasure. 
Star  after  star  shot  by,  or,  meteor-like, 
Crossed  me  and  vanished  —  lost  at  once  among 
Those  hundred  Isles  that  tower  majestically, 
That  rise  abruptly  from  the  water-mark, 
Not  with  rough  crag,  but  marble,  and  the  work 
Of  noblest  architects.     I  lingered  still; 
Nor  sought  my  threshold,  till  the  hour  was  come 
And  past,  when,  flitting  home  in  the  grey  light, 
The  young  BIANCA  found  her  father's  door, 
That  door  so  often  with  a  trembling  hand, 
So  often — then  so  lately  left  ajar, 
Shut;  and,  all  terror,  all  perplexity, 
Now  by  her  lover  urged,  now  by  her  love, 
Fled  o'er  the  waters  to  return  no  more. 

*  Premi  o  stall. 


ITALY.  271 


THE  BRIDES  OF  VENICE. 

IT  was  St.  Mary's  Eve,  and  all  poured  forth 

As  to  some  grand  solemnity.     The  fisher 

Came  from  his  islet,  bringing  o'er  the  waves 

His  wife  and  little  one;  the  husbandman 

From  the  Firm  Land,  along  the  Po,  the  Brenta, 

Crowding  the  common  ferry.     All  arrived; 

And  in  his  straw  the  prisoner  turned  and  listened, 

So  great  the  stir  in  Venice.     Old  and  young 

Thronged  her  three  hundred  bridges;  the  grave  Turk, 

Turbaned,  long-vested,  and  the  cozening  Jew, 

In  yellow  hat  and  threadbare  gaberdine, 

Hurrying  along.     For,  as  the  custom  was, 

The  noblest  sons  and  daughters  of  the  State, 

They  of  Patrician  birth,  the  flower  of  Venice, 

Whose  names  are  written  in  the  Book  of  Gold, 

Were  on  that  day  to  solemnize  their  nuptials. 

At  noon,  a  distant  murmur  through  the  crowd, 
Rising  and  rolling  on,  announced  their  coming; 
And  never  from  the  first  was  to  be  seen 
Such  splendour  or  such  beauty.     Two  and  two 
(The  richest  tapestry  unrolled  before  them), 
First  came  the  Brides  in  all  their  loveliness; 
Each  in  her  veil,  and  by  two  bride-maids  followed, 
Only  less  lovely,  who  behind  her  bore 
The  precious  caskets  that  within  contained 
The  dowry  and  the  presents.     On  she  moved, 
Her  eyes  cast  down,  and  holding  in  her  hand 
A  fan  that  gently  waved,  of  ostrich-feathers. 


272  ITALY. 

Her  veil,  transparent  as  the  gossamer, 

Fell  from  beneath  a  starry  diadem; 

And  on  her  dazzling  neck  a  jewel  shone, 

Ruby  or  diamond  or  dark  amethyst; 

A  jewelled  chain,  in  many  a  winding  wreath, 

Wreathing  her  gold  brocade. 

Before  the  Church, 

That  venerable  structure  now  no  more 
On  the  sea-brink,  another  train  they  met, 
No  strangers,  nor  unlocked  for  ere  they  came, 
Brothers  to  some,  still  dearer  to  the  rest; 
Each  in  his  hand  bearing  his  cap  and  plume, 
And,  as  he  walked,  with  modest  dignity 
Folding  his  scarlet  mantle.     At  the  gate 
They  join;  and  slowly  up  the  bannered  aisle 
Led  by  the  choir,  with  due  solemnity 
Range  round  the  altar.     In  his  vestments  there 
The  Patriarch  stands ;  and,  while  the  anthem  flows, 
Who  can  look  on  unmoved  —  the  dream  of  years 
Just  now  fulfilling !     Here  a  mother  weeps, 
Rejoicing  in  her  daughter.     There  a  son 
Blesses  the  day  that  is  to  make  her  his; 
While  she  shines  forth  thro'  all  her  ornament, 
Her  beauty  heightened  by  her  hopes  and  fears. 
At  length  the  rite  is  ending.     All  fall  down, 
All  of  all  ranks;  and,  stretching  out  his  hands, 
Apostle-like,  the  holy  man  proceeds 
To  give  the  blessing  —  not  a  stir,  a  breath; 
When  hark,  a  din  of  voices  from  without, 
And  shrieks  and  groans  and  outcries  as  in  battle ! 
And  lo,  the  door  is  burst,  the  curtain  rent, 
And  armed  ruffians,  robbers  from  the  deep, 


ITALY.  273 

Savage,  uncouth,  led  on  by  BARBARO, 
And  his  six  brothers  in  their  coats  of  steel, 
Are  standing  on  the  threshold !     Statue-like, 
Awhile  they  gaze  on  the  fallen  multitude, 
Each  with  his  sabre  up,  in  act  to  strike ; 
Then,  as  at  once  recovering  from  the  spell, 
Rush  forward  to  the  altar,  and  as  soon 
Are  gone  again  —  amid  no  clash  of  arms 
Bearing  away  the  maidens  and  the  treasures. 

Where  are  they  now? — ploughing  the  distant  waves, 
Their  sails  out-spread  and  given  to  the  wind, 
They  on  their  decks  triumphant.     On  they  speed, 
Steering  for  ISTRIA;  their  accursed  barks 
(Well  are  they  known,  the  galliot  and  the  galley) 
Freighted,  alas,  with  all  that  life  endears! 
The  richest  argosies  were  poor  to  them ! 

Now  hadst  thou  seen  along  that  crowded  shore 
The  matrons  running  wild,  their  festal  dress 
A  strange  and  moving  contrast  to  their  grief; 
And  through  the  city,  wander  where  thou  wouldst, 
The  men  half  armed  and  arming  —  every  where 
As  roused  from  slumber  by  the  stirring  trump ; 
One  with  a  shield,  one  with  a  casque  and  spear ; 
One  with  an  axe  severing  in  two  the  chain 
Of  some  old  pinnace.     Not  a  raft,  a  plank, 
But  on  that  day  was  drifting.     In  an  hour 
Half  VENICE  was  afloat.     But  long  before, 
Frantic  with  grief  and  scorning  all  control, 
The  Youths  were  gone  in  a  light  brigantine, 
Lying  at  anchor  near  the  Arsenal; 
Each  having  sworn,  and  by  the  holy  rood, 
To  slay  or  to  be  slain. 

2K 


274  ITALY. 

And  from  the  tower 

The  watchman  gives  the  signal.     In  the  East 
A  ship  is  seen,  and  making  for  the  Port; 
Her  flag  St.  Mark's.     And  now  she  turns  the  point, 
Over  the  waters  like  a  sea-bird  flying! 
Ha,  'tis  the  same,  'tis  theirs !  from  stern  to  prow 
Green  with  victorious  wreaths,  she  comes  to  bring 

All  that  was  lost. Coasting,  with  narrow  search, 

FRIULI  —  like  a  tiger  in  his  spring, 

They  had  surprised  the  Corsairs  where  they  lay 

Sharing  the  spoil  in  blind  security 

And  casting  lots  —  had  slain  them,  one  and  all, 

All  to  the  last,  and  flung  them  far  and  wide 

Into  the  sea,  their  proper  element ; 

Him  first,  as  first  in  rank,  whose  name  so  long 

Had  hushed  the  babes  of  VENICE,  and  who  yet, 

Breathing  a  little,  in  his  look  retained 

The  fierceness  of  his  soul. 

Thus  were  the  Brides 

Lost  and  recovered ;  and  what  now  remained 
But  to  give  Thanks?    Twelve  breast-plates  and  twelve 

crowns, 

By  the  young  Victors  to  their  Patron-Saint 
Vowed  in  the  field,  inestimable  gifts 
Flaming  with  gems  and  gold,  were  in  due  time 
Laid  at  his  feet;  and  ever  to  preserve 
The  memory  of  a  day  so  full  of  change, 
From  joy  to  grief,  from  grief  to  joy  again, 
Thro'  many  an  age,  as  oft  as  it  came  round, 
'Twas  held  religiously.     The  Doge  resigned 
His  crimson  for  pure  ermine,  visiting 
At  earliest  dawn  St.  Mary's  silver  shrine; 


\irougli  the  dry  in  a  statoly  or-irgp 

•       ..  •  :!-. 

Lthes  youn^  anjJ  n   . 


ITALY.  275 

And  thro'  the  city,  in  a  stately  barge 

Of  gold,  were  borne  with  songs  and  symphonies 

Twelve  ladies  young  and  noble.     Clad  they  were 

In  bridal  white  with  bridal  ornaments, 

Each  in  her  glittering  veil;  and  on  the  deck, 

As  on  a  burnished  throne,  they  glided  by; 

No  window  or  balcony  but  adorned 

With  hangings  of  rich  texture,  not  a  roof 

But  covered  with  beholders,  and  the  air 

Vocal  with  joy.     Onward  they  went,  their  oars 

Moving  in  concert  with  the  harmony, 

Thro'  the  Rialto  to  the  Ducal  Palace, 

And  at  a  banquet,  served  with  honour  there, 

Sat  representing,  in  the  eyes  of  all, 

Eyes  not  unwet,  I  ween,  with  grateful  tears, 

Their  lovely  ancestors,  the  Brides  of  VENICE. 


FOSCARL 

LET  us  lift  up  the  curtain,  and  observe 

What  passes  in  that  chamber.     Now  a  sigh, 

And  now  a  groan  is  heard.     Then  all  is  still. 

Twenty  are  sitting  as  in  judgment  there ; 

Men  who  have  served  their  country,  and  grown  grey 

In  governments  and  distant  embassies, 

Men  eminent  alike  in  war  and  peace ; 

Such  as  in  effigy  shall  long  adorn 

The  walls  of  VENICE  —  to  show  what  she  was ! 

Their  garb  is  black,  and  black  the  arras  is, 

And  sad  the  general  aspect.     Yet  their  looks 

Are  calm,  are  cheerful;  nothing  there  like  grief, 


276  ITALY. 

Nothing  or  harsh  or  cruel.     Still  the  noise, 
That  low  and  dismal  moaning. 

Half  withdrawn, 

A  little  to  the  left,  sits  one  in  crimson, 
A  venerable  man,  fourscore  and  five. 
Cold  drops  of  sweat  stand  on  his  furrowed  brow. 
His  hands  are  clenched ;  his  eyes  half-shut  and  glazed ; 
His  shrunk  and  withered  limbs  rigid  as  marble. 
'Tis  FOSCARI,  the  Doge.     And  there  is  one, 
A  young  man,  lying  at  his  feet,  stretched  out 
In  torture.     'Tis  his  son.     'Tis  GIACOMO, 
His  only  joy  (and  has  he  lived  for  this?) 
Accused  of  murder.     Yesternight  the  proofs, 
If  proofs  they  be,  were  in  the  Lion's  Mouth 
Dropped  by  some  hand  unseen;  and  he,  himself, 
Must  sit  and  look  on  a  beloved  son 

Suffering  the  Question. Twice  to  die  in  peace, 

To  save,  while  yet  he  could,  a  falling  house, 
And  turn  the  hearts  of  his  fell  Adversaries, 
Those  who  had  now,  like  hell-hounds  in  full  cry, 
Chased  down  his  last  of  four,  twice  did  he  ask 
To  lay  aside  the  Crown,  and  they  refused, 
An  oath  exacting,  never  more  to  ask ; 
And  there  he  sits,  a  spectacle  of  woe, 
Condemned  in  bitter  mockery  to  wear 

The  bauble  he  had  sighed  for. Once  again 

The  screw  is  turned;  and,  as  it  turns,  the  Son 
Looks  up,  and,  in  a  faint  and  broken  tone, 
Murmurs  '  My  Father  ! '     The  old  man  shrinks  back, 
And  in  his  mantle  muffles  up  his  face. 
'Art  thou  not  guilty?'  says  a  voice  that  once 
Would  greet  the  Sufferer  long  before  they  met. 


ITALY.  277 

'Art  thou  not  guilty?' — 'No!     Indeed  I  am  not!' 

But  all  is  unavailing.     In  that  Court 

Groans  are  confessions;  Patience,  Fortitude, 

The  work  of  Magic;  and,  released,  revived, 

For  Condemnation,  from  his  Father's  lips 

He  hears  the  sentence,  'Banishment  to  CANDIA. 

Death  if  he  leaves  it.'     And  the  hark  sets  sail; 

And  he  is  gone  from  all  he  loves  in  life ! 

Gone  in  the  dead  of  night  —  unseen  of  any  — 

Without  a  word,  a  look  of  tenderness, 

To  he  called  up,  when,  in  his  lonely  hours, 

He  would  indulge  in  weeping.     Like  a  ghost, 

Day  after  day,  year  after  year,  he  haunts 

An  ancient  rampart  that  o'erhangs  the  sea; 

Gazing  on  vacancy,  and  hourly  there 

Starting  as  from  some  wild  and  uncouth  dream, 

To  answer  to  the  watch. Alas,  how  changed 

From  him  the  mirror  of  the  Youth  of  VENICE  ; 

Whom  in  the  slightest  thing,  or  whim  or  chance, 

Did  he  hut  wear  his  doublet  so  and  so, 

All  followed ;  at  whose  nuptials,  when  he  won 

That  maid  at  once  the  nohlest,  fairest,  hest, 

A  daughter  of  the  House  that  now  among 

Its  ancestors  in  monumental  brass 

Numbers  eight  Doges  —  to  convey  her  home, 

The  Bucentaur  went  forth;  and  thrice  the  Sun 

Shone  on  the  Chivalry,  that,  front  to  front, 

And  blaze  on  blaze  reflecting,  met  and  ranged 

To  tourney  at  ST.  MARK'S. But  lo,  at  last, 

Messengers  come.     He  is  recalled:  his  heart 
Leaps  at  the  tidings.     He  embarks :  the  boat 
Springs  to  the  oar,  and  back  again  he  goes  — 
24 


278  ITALY. 

Into  that  very  Chamber!  there  to  lie 

In  his  old  resting-place,  the  bed  of  steel; 

And  thence  look  up  (Five  long,  long  years  of  Grief 

Have  not  killed  either)  on  his  wretched  Sire, 

Still  in  that  seat  —  as  though  he  had  not  stirred; 

Immovable,  and  muffled  in  his  cloak. 

But  now  he  comes,  convicted  of  a  crime 
Great  by  the  laws  of  VENICE.     Night  and  day, 
Brooding  on  what  he  had  been,  what  he  was, 
'Twas  more  than  he  could  bear.     His  longing-fits 
Thickened  upon  him.     His  desire  for  home 
Became  a  madness;  and,  resolved  to  go, 
If  but  to  die,  in  his  despair  he  writes 
A  letter  to  the  sovereign-prince  of  MILAN, 
(To  him  whose  name,  among  the  greatest  now, 
Had  perished,  blotted  out  at  once  and  rased, 
But  for  the  rugged  limb  of  an  old  oak) 
Soliciting  his  influence  with  the  State, 

And  drops  it  to  be  found. 'Would  ye  know  all? 

I  have  transgressed,  offended  wilfully; 
And  am  prepared  to  suffer  as  I  ought. 
But  let  me,  let  me,  if  but  for  an  hour, 
(Ye  must  consent  —  for  all  of  you  are  sons, 
Most  of  you  husbands,  fathers)  let  me  first 
Indulge  the  natural  feelings  of  a  man, 
And,  ere  I  die,  if  such  my  sentence  be, 
Press  to  my  heart  ('tis  all  I  ask  of  you) 
My  wife,  my  children  —  and  my  aged  mother  — 
Say,  is  she  yet  alive  ? '     He  is  condemned 
To  go  ere  set  of  sun,  go  whence  he  came, 
A  banished  man;  and  for  a  year  to  breathe 
The  vapour  of  a  dungeon.     But  his  prayer 


ITALY.  279 

(What  could  they  less?)  is  granted.     In  a  hall 

Open  and  crowded  by  the  common  herd, 

'Twas  there  a  Wife  and  her  four  Sons  yet  young, 

A  Mother  borne  along,  life  ebbing  fast, 

And  an  old  Doge,  mustering  his  strength  in  vain, 

Assembled  now,  sad  privilege,  to  meet 

One  so  long  lost,  one  who  for  them  had  braved, 

For  them  had  sought  —  death  and  yet  worse  than  death  ! 

To  meet  him,  and  to  part  with  him  for  ever !  — 

Time  and  their  wrongs  had  changed  them  all,  him  most ! 

Yet  when  the  Wife,  the  Mother  looked  again, 

'Twas  he  —  'twas  he  himself —  'twas  GIACOMO  ! 

And  all  clung  round  him,  weeping  bitterly; 

'  Weeping  the  more,  because  they  wept  in  vain. 

Unnerved,  and  now  unsettled  in  his  mind 
From  long  and  exquisite  pain,  he  sobs  and  cries, 
Kissing  the  old  Man's  cheek,  'Help  me,  my  Father! 
Let  me,  I  pray  thee,  live  once  more  among  ye : 

Let  me  go  home.' 'My  Son,'  returns  the  Doge, 

Mastering  his  grief,  'if  thou  art  indeed  my  Son, 
Obey.     Thy  Country  wills  it.' 

GIACOMO 

That  night  embarked;  sent  to  an  early  grave 
For  one  whose  dying  words,  '  The  deed  was  mine ! 
He  is  most  innocent !     'Twas  I  who  did  it ! ' 
Came  when  he  slept  in  peace.     The  ship,  that  sailed 
Swift  as  the  winds  with  his  deliverance, 
Bore  back  a  lifeless  corse.     Generous  as  brave, 
Affection,  kindness,  the  sweet  offices 
Of  duty  and  love  were  from  his  tenderest  years 
To  him  as  needful  as  his  daily  bread; 
And  to  become  a  by-word  in  the  streets,  • 


280  ITALY. 

Bringing  a  stain  on  those  who  gave  him  life, 
And  those,  alas,  now  worse  than  fatherless  — 
To  be  proclaimed  a  ruffian,  a  night-stabber, 
He  on  whom  none  before  had  breathed  reproach  — 
He  lived  but  to  disprove  it.     That  hope  lost, 
Death  followed.     Oh,  if  Justice  be  in  Heaven, 
A  day  must  come  of  ample  Retribution ! 

Then  was  thy  cup,  old  Man,  full  to  the  brim. 
But  thou  wert  yet  alive;  and  there  was  one, 
The  soul  and  spring  of  all  that  Enmity, 
Who  would  not  leave  thee;  fastening  on  thy  flank, 
Hungering  and  thirsting,  still  unsatisfied; 
One  of  a  name  illustrious  as  thine  own ! 
One  of  the  Ten !  one  of  the  Invisible  Three ! 
'Twas  LOREDANO.     When  the  whelps  were  gone, 
He  would  dislodge  the  Lion  in  his  den; 
And,  leading  on  the  pack  he  long  had  led, 
The  miserable  pack  that  ever  howled 
Against  fallen  Greatness,  moved  that  FOSCARI 
Be  Doge  no  longer;  urging  his  great  age; 
Calling  the  loneliness  of  grief  neglect 
Of  duty,  sullenness  against  the  laws. 

• 'I  am  most  willing  to  retire,'  said  he: 

'But  I  have  sworn,  and  cannot  of  myself. 

Do  with  me  as  ye  please.' He  was  deposed, 

He,  who  had  reigned  so  long  and  gloriously; 
His  ducal  bonnet  taken  from  his  brow, 
His  robes  stript  off,  his  seal  and  signet-ring 
Broken  before  him.     But  now  nothing  moved 
The  meekness  of  his  soul.     All  things  alike ! 
Among  the  six  that  came  with  the  decree, 
FOSCARI  saw  one  he  knew  not,  and  inquired 


ITALY.  281 

His  name.     'I  am  the  son  of  MARCO  MEMMO.' 
'Ah,'  he  replied,  'thy  father  was  my  friend.' 

And  now  he  goes.     'It  is  the  hour  and  past. 

I  have  no  business  here.' 'But  wilt  thou  not 

Avoid  the  gazing  crowd?     That  way  is  private.' 

'No!  as  I  entered,  so  will  I  retire.' 

And,  leaning  on  his  staff,  he  left  the  House, 

His  residence  for  five-and-thirty  years, 

By  the  same  stairs  up  which  he  came  in  state; 

Those  where  the  giants  stand,  guarding  the  ascent, 

Monstrous,  terrific.     At  the  foot  he  stopt, 

And,  on  his  staff  still  leaning,  turned  and  said, 

'By  mine  own  merits  did  I  come.     I  go, 

Driven  by  the  malice  of  mine  Enemies.' 

Then  to  his  boat  withdrew,  poor  as  he  came, 

Amid  the  sighs  of  them  that  dared  not  speak. 

This  journey  was  his  last.     When  the  bell  rang 
At  dawn,  announcing  a  new  Doge  to  VENICE, 
It  found  him  on  his  knees  before  the  Cross, 
Clasping  his  aged  hands  in  earnest  prayer; 
And  there  he  died.     Ere  half  its  task  was  done, 
It  rang  his  knell. 

But  whence  the  deadly  hate 
That  caused  all  this  —  the  hate  of  LOREDANO? 
It  was  a  legacy  his  Father  left, 
Who,  but  for  FOSCARI,  had  reigned  in  Venice, 
And,  like  the  venom  in  the  serpent's  bag, 
Gathered  and  grew !     Nothing  but  turned  to  hate ! 
In  vain  did  FOSCARI  supplicate  for  peace, 
Offering  in  marriage  his  fair  ISABEL. 
He  changed  not,  with  a  dreadful  piety 
Studying  revenge;  listening  to  those  alone 
24*  2L 


282  ITALY. 

"Who  talked  of  vengeance ;  grasping  by  the  hand 
Those  in  their  zeal  (and  none  were  wanting  there) 
Who  came  to  tell  him  of  another  Wrong, 
Done  or  imagined.     When  his  father  died, 
They  whispered,  '  Twas  by  poison !'  and  the  words 
Struck  him  as  uttered  from  his  father's  grave. 
He  wrote  it  on  the  tomb  ('tis  there  in  marble) 
And  with  a  brow  of  care,  most  merchant-like, 
Among  the  debtors  in  his  leger-book 
Entered  at  full  (nor  month  nor  day  forgot) 
'FRANCESCO  FOSCARI —  for  my  father's  death.' 
Leaving  a  blank  —  to  be  filled  up  hereafter. 
When  FOSCARI'S  noble  heart  at  length  gave  way, 
He  took  the  volume  from  the  shelf  again 
Calmly,  and  with  his  pen  filled  up  the  blank, 
Inscribing,  '  He  has  paid  me." 

Ye  who  sit 

Brooding  from  day  to  day,  from  day  to  day 
Chewing  the  bitter  cud,  and  starting  up 
As  tho'  the  hour  was  come  to  whet  your  fangs, 
And,  like  the  Pisan,  gnaw  the  hairy  scalp 
Of  him  who  had  offended  —  if  ye  must, 
Sit  and  brood  on;  but  oh  forbear  to  teach 
The  lesson  to  your  children. 


MAKCOLINI. 

IT  was  midnight ;  the  great  clock  had  struck,  and  was 
still  echoing  through  every  porch  and  gallery  in  the 
quarter  of  ST.  MARK,  when  a  young  Citizen,  wrapped  in 
his  cloak,  was  hastening  home  under  it  from  an  interview 


ITALY.  283 

with  his  Mistress.  His  step, was  light,  for  his  heart  was 
so.  Her  parents  had  just  consented  to  their  marriage ; 
and  the  very  day  was  named.  '  Lovely  GIULIETTA  ! '  he 
cried,  '  And  shall  I  then  call  thee  mine  at  last  ?  Who 
was  ever  so  blest  as  thy  MARCOLINI  ? '  But  as  he  spoke, 
he  stopped;  for  something  glittered  on  the  pavement 
before  him.  It  was  a  scabbard  of  rich  workmanship ; 
and  the  discovery,  what  was  it  but  an  earnest  of  good 
fortune  ?  '  Rest  thou  there  !'  he  cried,  thrusting  it  gaily 
into  his  belt.  'If  another  claims  thee  not,  thou  hast 
changed  masters ! '  and  on  he  went  as  before,  humming 
the  burden  of  a  song  which  he  and  his  GIULIETTA  had 
been  singing  together.  But  how  little  do  we  know  what 
the  next  minute  will  bring  forth !  He  turned  by  the 
Church  of  ST.  GEMLNIANO,  and  in  three  steps  he  met  the 
Watch.  A  murder  had  just  been  committed.  The 
Senator  RENALDI  had  been  found  dead  at  his  door,  the 
dagger  left  in  his  heart ;  and  the  unfortunate  MARCOLINI 
was  dragged  away  for  examination.  The  place,  the  time, 
every  thing  served  to  excite,  to  justify  suspicion ;  and  no 
sooner  had  he  entered  the  guard-house  than  a  damning 
witness  appeared  against  him.  The  Bravo  in  his  flight 
had  thrown  away  his  scabbard ;  and,  smeared  with  blood, 
with  blood  not  yet  dry,  it  was  now  in  the  belt  of  MARCO- 
LINI. Its  patrician  ornaments  struck  every  eye ;  and, 
when  the  fatal  dagger  was  produced  and  compared  with 
it,  not  a  doubt  of  his  guilt  remained.  Still  there  is  in 
the  innocent  an  energy  and  a  composure,  an  energy  when 
they  speak  and  a  composure  when  they  are  silent,  to 
which  none  can  be  altogether  insensible ;  and  the  Judge 
delayed  for  some  time  to  pronounce  the  sentence,  though 
he  was  a  near  relation  of  the  dead.  At  length,  however, 


284  ITALY. 

it  came;  and  MARCOLINI  lost  his  life,  GIULIETTA  her 
reason. 

Not  many  years  afterwards  the  truth  revealed  itself, 
the  real  criminal  in  his  last  moments  confessing  the 
crime :  and  hence  the  custom  in  VENICE,  a  custom  that 
long  prevailed,  for  a  crier  to  cry  out  in  the  Court  before 
a  sentence  was  passed,  '  Bicordatevi  del  povero  MARCO- 
LINI ! '  * 

Great  indeed  was  the  lamentation  throughout  the  City ; 
and  the  Judge,  dying,  directed  that  thenceforth  and  for 
ever  a  Mass  should  be  sung  every  night  in  a  chapel  of 
the  Ducal  Church  for  his  own  soul  and  the  soul  of 
MARCOLINI  and  the  souls  of  all  who  had  suffered  by  an 
unjust  judgment.  Some  land  on  the  BRENTA  was  left  by 
him  for  the  purpose :  and  still  is  the  Mass  sung  in  the 
chapel ;  still  every  night,  when  the  great  square  is  illu- 
minating and  the  casinos  are  filling  fast  with  the  gay  and 
the  dissipated,  a  bell  is  rung  as  for  a  service,  and  a  ray 
of  light  seen  to  issue  from  a  small  gothic  window  that 
looks  towards  the  place  of  execution,  the  place  where  on 
a  scaffold  MARCOLINI  breathed  his  last. 


ARQUA. 

THREE  leagues  from  PADUA  stands,  and  long  has  stood 

(The  Paduan  student  knows  it,  honours  it) 

A  lonely  tomb  beside  a  mountain-church ; 

And  I  arrived  there  as  the  sun  declined 

Low  in  the  west.     The  gentle  airs,  that  breathe 

*  Remember  the  poor  MARCOLINI  ! 


ITALY.  J 

Fragrance  at  eve,  were  rising,  and  the  birds 
Singing  their  farewell-song  —  the  very  song 
They  sung  the  night  that  tomb  received  a  tenant ; 
When,  as  alive,  clothed  in  his  Canon's  stole, 
And  slowly  winding  down  the  narrow  path, 
He  came  to  rest  there.     Nobles  of  the  land, 
Princes  and  prelates  mingled  in  his  train, 
Anxious  by  any  act,  while  yet  they  could, 
To  catch  a  ray  of  glory  by  reflection ; 
And  from  that  hour  have  kindred  spirits  flocked 
From  distant  countries,  from  the  north,  the  south, 
To  see  where  he  is  laid. 

Twelve  years  ago, 

When  I  descended  the  impetuous  RHONE, 
Its  vineyards  of  such  great  and  old  renown,* 
Its  castles,  each  with  some  romantic  tale, 
Vanishing  fast  —  the  pilot  at  the  stern, 
He  who  had  steered  so  long,  standing  aloft, 
His  eyes  on  the  white  breakers,  and  his  hands 
On  what  was  now  his  rudder,  now  his  oar, 
A  huge  misshapen  plank  —  the  bark  itself 
Frail  and  uncouth,  launched  to  return  no  more, 
Such  as  a  shipwrecked  man  might  hope  to  build, 
Urged  by  the  love  of  home  —  Twelve  years  ago, 
When  like  an  arrow  from  the  cord  we  flew, 
Two  long,  long  days,  silence,  suspense  on  board, 
It  was  to  offer  at  thy  fount,  VAUCLUSE, 
Entering  the  arched  Cave,  to  wander  where 
PETRARCH  had  wandered,  to  explore  and  sit 
Where  in  his  peasant-dress  he  loved  to  sit, 

»  The  Cote  Rotie,  the  Hermitage,  &c. 


286  ITALY. 

Musing,  reciting  —  on  some  rock  moss-groAvn, 
On  the  fantastic  root  of  some  old  beech, 
That  drinks  the  living  waters  as  they  stream 
Over  their  emerald-bed ;  and  could  I  now 
Neglect  the  place  where,  in  a  graver  mood, 
When  he  had  done  and  settled  with  the  world, 
When  all  the  illusions  of  his  Youth  were  fled, 
Indulged  perhaps  too  much,  cherished  too  long, 
He  came  for  the  conclusion?     Half-way  up 
He  built  his  house,  whence  as  by  stealth  he  caught, 
Among  the  hills,  a  glimpse  of  busy  life 

That  soothed,  not  stirred. But  knock,  and  enter  in. 

This  was  his  chamber.     'Tis  as  when  he  went; 
As  if  he  now  were  in  his  orchard-grove. 
And  this  his  closet.     Here  he  sat  and  read. 
This  was  his  chair;  and  in  it,  unobserved, 
Reading,  or  thinking  of  his  absent  friends, 
He  passed  away  as  in  a  quiet  slumber. 
Peace  to  this  region !     Peace  to  each,  to  all ! 
They  know  his  value  —  every  coming  step, 
That  draws  the  gazing  children  from  their  play, 

Would  tell  them  if  they  knew  not. But  could  aught, 

Ungentle  or  ungenerous,  spring  up 
Where  he  is  sleeping;  where,  and  in  an  age 
Of  savage  warfare  and  blind  bigotry, 
He  cultured  all  that  could  refine,  exalt ; 
Leading  to  better  things. 


IT  ALT.  287 


GINEVEA. 

IF  thou  shouldst  ever  come  by  choice  or  chance 
To  MODENA,  where  still  religiously 
Among  her  ancient  trophies  is  preserved 
BOLOGNA'S  bucket  (in  its  chain  it  hangs 
Within  that  reverend  tower,  the  Guirlandine) 
Stop  at  a  Palace  near  the  Reggie-gate, 
Dwelt  in  of  old  by  one  of  the  ORSLTSTI. 
Its  noble  gardens,  terrace  above  terrace, 
And  rich  in  fountains,  statues,  cypresses, 
Will  long  detain  thee;  thro'  their  arched  walks, 
Dim  at  noon-day,  discovering  many  a  glimpse 
Of  knights  and  dames,  such  as  in  old  romance, 
And  lovers,  such  as  in  heroic  song, 
Perhaps  the  two,  for  groves  were  their  delight, 
Who  in  the  spring-time,  as  alone  they  sat, 
Venturing  together  on  a  tale  of  love, 

Read  only  part  that  day.* A  summer-sun 

Sets  ere  one  half  is  seen ;  but  ere  thou  go, 
Enter  the  house — prythee,  forget  it  not  — 
And  look  awhile  upon  a  picture  there. 
'Tis  of  a  Lady  in  her  earliest  youth, 
The  very  last  of  that  illustrious  race, 
Done  by  ZAMPiERif —  but  by  whom  I  care  not. 
He,  who  observes  it  —  ere  he  passes  on, 
Gazes  his  fill,  and  comes  and  comes  again, 
That  he  may  call  it  up,  when  far  away. 

*  Inferno.  V.  f  Commonly  called  DOMENICHINO. 


288  ITALY. 

She  sits,  inclining  forward  as  to  speak, 
Her  lips  half-open,  and  her  finger  up, 
As  tho'  she  said  '  Beware ! '  her  vest  of  gold 
Broidered  with  flowers,  and  clasped  from  head  to  foot. 
An  emerald-stone  in  every  golden  clasp ; 
And  on  her  brow,  fairer  than  alabaster, 
A  coronet  of  pearls.     But  then  her  face, 
So  lovely,  yet  so  arch,  so  full  of  mirth, 
The  overflowings  of  an  innocent  heart  — 
It  haunts  me  still,  tho'  many  a  year  has  fled, 
Like  some  wild  melody ! 

Alone  it  hangs 

Over  a  mouldering  heir-loom,  its  companion, 
An  oaken-chest,  half-eaten  by  the  worm, 
But  richly  carved  by  ANTONY  of  Trent 
With  scripture-stories  from  the  Life  of  Christ ; 
A  chest  that  came  from  VENICE,  and  had  held 
The  ducal  robes  of  some  old  Ancestor. 
That  by  the  way — it  may  be  true  or  false  — 
But  don't  forget  the  picture;  and  thou  wilt  not, 
When  thou  hast  heard  the  tale  they  told  me  there. 

She  was  an  only  child;  from  infancy 
The  joy,  the  pride  of  an  indulgent  Sire. 
Her  Mother  dying  of  the  gift  she  gave, 
That  precious  gift,  what  else  remained  to  him? 
The  young  GINEVRA  was  his  all  in  life, 
Still  as  she  grew,  for  ever  in  his  sight ; 
And  in  her  fifteenth  year  became  a  bride, 
Marrying  an  only  son,  FRANCESCO  DORIA,' 
Her  playmate  from  her  birth,  and  her  first  love. 

Just  as  she  looks  there  in  her  bridal  dress, 
She  was  all  gentleness,  all  gaiety; 


dont  lof^it  the  picttug:  and  thbu  Vilt  not 
?n  thou  tacst-heaid  the  tale  they  toll  nuevtKeie  ' 


"•    '•'X 


4    ~  *• 


*    < 


* 


ITALY.  289 

Her  pranks  the  favourite  theme  of  every  tongue. 
But  now  the  day  was  come,  the  day,  the  hour: 
Now,  frowning,  smiling,  for  the  hundredth  time, 
The  nurse,  that  ancient  lady,  preached  decorum; 
And,  in  the  lustre  of  her  youth,  she  gave 
Her  hand,  with  her  heart  in  it,  to  FRANCESCO. 

Great  was  the  joy;  but  at  the  Bridal  feast, 
When  all  sat  down,  the  Bride  was  wanting  there. 
Nor  was  she  to  be  found !     Her  Father  cried, 
'  'Tis  but  to  make  a  trial  of  our  love ! ' 
And  filled  his  glass  to  all;  but  his  hand  shook, 
And  soon  from  guest  to  guest  the  panic  spread. 
'Twas  but  that  instant  she  had  left  FKANCESCO, 
Laughing  and  looking  back  and  flying  still, 
Her  ivory-tooth  imprinted  on  his  finger. 
But  now,  alas,  she  was  not  to  be  found; 
Nor  from  that  hour  could  any  thing  be  guessed, 
But  that  she  was  not ! 

Weary  of  his  life, 

FRANCESCO  flew  to  VENICE,  and  forthwith 
Flung  it  away  in  battle  with  the  Turk. 
ORSINI  lived;  and  long  might'st  thou  have  seen 
An  old  man  wandering  as  in  quest  of  something, 
Something  he  could  not  find  —  he  knew  not  what. 
When  he  was  gone,  the  house  remained  awhile 
Silent  and  tenantless  —  then  went  to  strangers. 

Full  fifty  years  were  past,  and  all  forgot, 
When  on  an  idle  day,  a  day  of  search 
'Mid  the  old  lumber  in  the  Gallery, 
That  mouldering  chest  was  noticed;  and  'twas  said 
By  one  as  young,  as  thoughtless  as  GINEVRA, 
'Why  not  remove  it  from  its  lurking  place?' 
25  2M 


290  ITALY. 

'Twas  done  as  soon  as  said;  but  on  the  way 
It  burst,  it  fell;  and  lo,  a  skeleton, 
With  here  and  there  a  pearl,  an  emerald-stone, 
A  golden-clasp,  clasping  a  shred  of  gold. 
All  else  had  perished  —  save  a  nuptial  ring, 
And  a  small  seal,  her  mother's  legacy, 
Engraven  with  a  name,  the  name  of  both, 

'GlNEVRA.' 

There  then  had  she  found  a  grave  ! 
Within  that  chest  had  she  concealed  herself, 
Fluttemig  with  joy,  the  happiest  of  the  happy  ; 
When  a  spring-lock,  that  lay  in  ambush  there, 
Fastened  her  down  for  ever! 


BOLOGNA. 

'TwAS  night  ;  the  noise  and  bustle  of  the  day 
Were  o'er.     The  mountebank  no  longer  wrought 
Miraculous  cures  —  he  and  his  stage  were  gone; 
And  he  who,  when  the  crisis  of  his  tale 
Came,  and  all  stood  breathless  with  hope  and  fear, 
Sent  round  his  cap  ;  and  he  who  thrummed  his  wire 
And  sang,  with  pleading  look  and  plaintive  strain 
Melting  the  passenger.     Thy  thousand  Cries,* 
So  well  portrayed,  and  by  a  son  of  thine, 
Whose  voice  had  swelled  the  hubbub  in  his  youth, 
Were  hushed,  BOLOGNA,  silence  in  the  streets, 

*  See  the  Cries  of  Bologna,  as  drawn  by  Annibal  Carracci.  He  wag 
of  very  humble  origin  ;  and,  to  correct  his  brother's  vanity,  once  sent 
him  a  portrait  of  their  father,  the  tailor,  threading  his  needle. 


ITALY.  291 

The  squares,  when  hark,  the  clattering  of  fleet  hoofs; 
And  soon  a  Courier,  posting  as  from  far, 
Housing  and  holster,  boot  and  belted  coat 
And  doublet,  stained  with  many  a  various  soil, 
Stopt  and  alighted.     'Twas  where  hangs  aloft 
That  ancient  sign,  the  pilgrim,  welcoming 
All  who  arrive  there,  all  perhaps  save  those 
Clad  like  himself,  with  staff  and  scallop-shell, 
Those  on  a  pilgrimage.     And  now  approached 
Wheels,  through  the  lofty  porticoes  resounding, 
Arch  beyond  arch,  a  shelter  or  a  shade 
As  the  sky  changes.     To  the  gate  they  came; 
And,  ere  the  man  had  half  his  story  done, 
Mine  host  received  the  Master — one  long  used 
To  sojourn  among  strangers,  every  where 
(Go  where  he  would,  along  the  wildest  track) 
Flinging  a  charm  that  shall  not  soon  be  lost, 
And  leaving  footsteps  to  be  traced  by  those 
Who  love  the  haunts  of  Genius;  one  who  saw, 
Observed,  nor  shunned  the  busy  scenes  of  life, 
But  mingled  not,  and  'mid  the  din,  the  stir, 
Lived  as  a  separate  Spirit. 

Much  had  passed 

Since  last  we  parted;  and  those  five  short  years  — 
Much  had  they  told !     His  clustering  locks  were  turned 
Grey;  nor  did  aught  recall  the  Youth  that  swam 
From  SESTOS  to  ABYDOS.     Yet  his  voice, 
Still  it  was  sweet;  still  from  his  eye  the  thought 
Flashed  lightning-like,  nor  lingered  on  the  way, 
Waiting  for  words.     Far,  far  into  the  night 
We  sat,  conversing  —  no  unwelcome  hour, 
The  hour  we  met ;  and,  when  Aurora  rose, 
Rising,  we  climbed  the  rugged  Apennine. 


292  ITALY. 

"Well  I  remember  how  the  golden  sun 
Filled  with  its  beams  the  unfathomable  gulfs, 
As  on  we  travelled,  and  along  the  ridge, 
'Mid  groves  of  cork  and  cistus  and  wild-fig, 
His  motley  household  came  —  Not  last  nor  least, 
BATTISTA,  who,  upon  the  moon-light  sea 
Of  VENICE,  had  so  ably,  zealously, 
Served,  and,  at  parting,  thrown  his  oar  away 
To  follow  thro'  the  world;  who  without  stain 
Had  worn  so  long  that  honourable  badge, 
The  gondolier's,  in  a  Patrician  House 
Arguing  unlimited  trust.* — Not  last  nor  least, 
Thou,  tho'  declining  in  thy  beauty  and  strength, 
Faithful  MORETTO,  to  the  latest  hour 
Guarding  his  chamber-door,  and  now  along 
The  silent,  sullen  strand  of  MISSOLONGHI 
Howling  in  grief. 

He  had  just  left  that  Place 
Of  old  renown,  once  in  the  ADRIAN  sea,f 
RAVENNA!  where,  from  DANTE'S  sacred  tomb 
He  had  so  oft,  as  many  a  verse  declares,! 
Drawn  inspiration;  where,  at  twilight-time, 
Thro'  the  pine-forest  wandering  with  loose  rein, 
Wandering  and  lost,  he  had  so  oft  beheld 
(What  is  not  visible  to  a  Poet's  eye?) 
The  spectre-knight,  the  hell-hounds,  and  their  prey, 
The  chase,  the  slaughter,  and  the  festal  mirth 


*  The  principal  gondolier;  il  fante  di  poppa,  was  almost  always  in  the 
confidence  of  his  master,  and  employed  on  occasions  that  required 
judgment  and  address. 

f  Adrianum  mare. — Cic.  J  See  the  Prophecy  of  Dante. 


ITALY.  293 

Suddenly  blasted.*     'Twas  a  theme  he  loved, 
But  others  claimed  their  turn ;  and  many  a  tower, 
Shattered,  uprooted  from  its  native  rock, 
Its  strength  the  pride  of  some  heroic  age, 
Appeared  and  vanished  (many  a  sturdy  steerf 
Yoked  and  unyoked)  while  as  in  happier  days 
He  poured  his  spirit  forth.     The  past  forgot, 
All  was  enjoyment.     Not  a  cloud  obscured 
Present  or  future. 

He  is  now  at  rest; 

And  praise  and  blame  fall  on  his  ear  alike, 
Now  dull  in  death.     Yes,  BYRON,  thou  art  gone, 
Gone  like  a  star  that  thro'  the  firmament 
Shot  and  was  lost,  in  its  eccentric  course 
Dazzling,  perplexing.     Yet  thy  heart,  methinks, 
Was  generous,  noble  —  noble  in  its  scorn 
Of  all  things  low  and  little;  nothing  there 
Sordid  or  servile.     If  imagined  wrongs 
Pursued  thee,  urging  thee  sometimes  to  do 
Things  long  regretted,  oft,  as  many  know, 
None  more  than  I,  thy  gratitude  would  build 
On  slight  foundations ;  and,  if  in  thy  life 
Not  happy,  in  thy  death  thou  surely  wert, 
Thy  wish  accomplished;  dying  in  the  land 
Where  thy  young  mind  had  caught  ethereal  fire, 
Dying  in  GREECE,  and  in  a  cause  so  glorious ! 
They  in  thy  train  —  ah,  little  did  they  think 
As  round  we  went,  that  they  so  soon  should  sit 
Mourning  beside  thee,  while  a  Nation  mourned, 

*  See  the  tale  as  told  by  Boccaccio  and  Dryden. 

f  They  wait  for  the  traveller's  carriage  at  the  foot  of  every  hill. 

25* 


294  ITALY. 

Changing  her  festal  for  her  funeral  song ; 
They  that  so  soon  should  hear  the  minute-gun, 
As  morning  gleamed  on  what  remained  of  thee, 
Roll  o'er  the  sea,  the  mountains,  numbering 
Thy  years  of  joy  and  sorrow. 

Thou  art  gone; 

And  he  who  would  assail  thee  in  thy  grave, 
Oh,  let  him  pause !     For  who  among  us  all, 
Tried  as  thou  wert  —  even  from  thine  earliest  years, 
When  wandering,  yet  unspoilt,  a  highland-boy  — 
Tried  as  thou  wert,  and  with  thy  soul  of  flame; 
Pleasure,  while  yet  the  down  was  on  thy  cheek, 
Uplifting,  pressing,  and  to  lips  like  thine, 
Her  charmed  cup  —  ah,  who  among  us  all 
Could  say  he  had  not  erred  as  much,  and  more  ? 


FLORENCE. 

OF  all  the  fairest  Cities  of  the  Earth 
None  is  so  fair  as  FLORENCE.     'Tis  a  gem 
Of  purest  ray;  and  what  a  light  broke  forth, 
When  it  emerged  from  darkness !     Search  within, 
Without ;  all  is  enchantment !     'Tis  the  Past 
Contending  with  the  Present;  and  in  turn 
Each  has  the  mastery. 

In  this  chapel  wrought 
One  of  the  Few,  Nature's  Interpreters, 
The  Few  whom  Genius  gives  as  Lights  to  shine, 
MASSACCIO;  and  he  slumbers  underneath. 
Wouldst  thou  behold  his  monument?     Look  round! 
And  know  that  where  we  stand,  stood  oft  and  long, 


ITALY.  295 

Oft  till  the  day  was  gone,  RAPHAEL  himself, 
He  and  his  haughty  Rival  *  —  patiently, 
Humbly,  to  learn  of  those  who  came  before, 
To  steal  a  spark  from  their  authentic  fire, 
Theirs  who  first  broke  the  universal  gloom, 
Sons  of  the  Morning.  —  On  that  ancient  seat,f 
The  seat  of  stone  that  runs  along  the  wall, 
South  of  the  Church,  east  of  the  belfry-tower, 
(Thou  canst  not  miss  it)  in  the  sultry  time 
Would  DANTE  sit  conversing,  and  with  those 
Who  little  thought  that  in  his  hand  he  held 
The  balance,  and  assigned  at  his  good  pleasure 
To  each  his  place  in  the  invisible  world, 
To  some  an  upper  region,  some  a  lower ; 
Many  a  transgressor  sent  to  his  account, 
Long  ere  m  FLORENCE  numbered  with  the  dead; 
The  body  still  as  full  of  life  and  stir 
At  home,  abroad;  still  and  as  oft  inclined 
To  eat,  drink,  sleep ;  still  clad  as  others  were, 
And  at  noon-day,  where  men  were  wont  to  meet, 
Met  as  continually;  when  the  soul  went, 
Relinquished  to  a  demon,  and  by  him 
(So  says  the  Bard,  and  who  can  read  and  doubt?) 
Dwelt  in  and  governed.  —  Sit  thee  down  awhile ; 
Then  by  the  gates  so  marvellously  wrought, 
That  they  might  serve  to  be  the  gates  of  Heaven, 
Enter  the  Baptistery.     That  place  he  loved, 
Loved  as  his  own;J  and  in  his  visits  there 
Well  might  he  take  delight !     For  when  a  child, 
Playing,  as  many  are  wont,  with  venturous  feet 

*  MICHAEL  ANGELO.  -j-  A  tradition. 

J  Mia  bel  Giovanni.     Inferno,  19. 


296  ITALY. 

Near  and  yet  nearer  to  the  sacred  font, 

Slipped  and  fell  in,  he  flew  and  rescued  him, 

Flew  with  an  energy,  a  violence, 

That  broke  the  marble  —  a  mishap  ascribed 

To  evil  motives ;  his,  alas,  to  lead 

A  life  of  trouble,  and  ere  long  to  leave 

All  things  most  dear  to  him,  ere  long  to  know 

How  salt  another's  bread  is,  and  the  toil 

Of  going  up  and  down  another's  stairs.* 

Nor  then  forget  that  Chamber  of  the  Dead, 
Where  the  gigantic  shapes  of  Night  and  Day, 
Turned  into  stone,  rest  everlastingly; 
Yet  still  are  breathing,  and  shed  round  at  noon 
A  two-fold  influence  —  only  to  be  felt  — 
A  light,  a  darkness,  mingling  each  with  each ; 
Both  and  yet  neither.     There,  from  age  to-  age, 
Two  Ghosts  are  sitting  on  their  sepulchres. 
That  is  the  Duke  LORENZO.     Mark  him  well. 
He  meditates,  his  head  upon  his  hand. 
What  from  beneath  his  helm-like  bonnet  scowls  ? 
Is  it  a  face,  or  but  an  eyeless  skull? 
'Tis  hid  in  shade;  yet,  like  the  basilisk, 
It  fascinates,  and  is  intolerable. 
His  mien  is  noble,  most  majestical ! 
Then  most  so,  when  the  distant  choir  is  heard, 
At  morn  or  eve — nor  fail  thou  to  attend 
On  that  thrice-hallowed  day,  when  all  are  there; 
When  all,  propitiating  with  solemn  songs, 
With  light,  and  frankincense,  and  holy  water, 
Visit  the  Dead.     Then  wilt  thou  feel  his  power ! 

*  Paradise,  17. 


ITALY.  207 

But  let  not  Sculpture,  Painting,  Poesy, 
Or  they,  the  masters  of  these  mighty  spells, 
Detain  us.     Our  first  homage  is  to  Virtue. 
Where,  in  what  dungeon  of  the  Citadel 
(It  must  be  known  —  the  writing  on  the  wall 
Cannot  be  gone  —  'twas  cut  in  with  his  dagger, 
Ere,  on  his  knees  to  God,  he  slew  himself,) 
Where,  in  what  dungeon,  did  FILIPPO  STROZZI, 
The  last,  the  greatest  of  the  men  of  FLORENCE, 
Breathe  out  his  soul  —  lest  in  his  agony, 
When  on  the  rack  and  called  upon  to  answer, 
He  might  accuse  the  guiltless. 

That  debt  paid, 

But  with  a  sigh,  a  tear  for  human  frailty, 
We  may  return,  and  once  more  give  a  loose 
To  the  delighted  spirit  —  worshipping, 
In  her  small  temple  of  rich  workmanship,* 
Venus  herself,  who,  when  she  left  the  skies, 
Came  hither. 


DON  GARZIA. 

AMONG  those  awful  forms,  in  elder  time 
Assembled,  and  through  many  an  after-age 
Destined  to  stand  as  Genii  of  the  Place 
Where  men  most  meet  in  FLORENCE,  may  be  seen 
His  who  first  played  the  Tyrant.     Clad  in  mail, 
But  with  his  helmet  off  —  in  kingly  state, 
Aloft  he  sits  upon  his  horse  of  brass  ;f 

*  The  Tribune.  t  COSMO,  the  first  Grand  Duke. 

2N 


298  ITALY. 

And  they,  who  read  the  legend  underneath, 

Go  and  pronounce  him  happy.     Yet,  methinks, 

There  is  a  Chamber  that,  if  walls  could  speak, 

Would  turn  their  admiration  into  pity. 

Half  of  what  passed,  died  with  him ;  but  the  rest 

All  he  discovered  when  the  fit  was  on, 

All  that,  by  those  who  listened,  could  be  gleaned 

From  broken  sentences  and  starts  in  sleep, 

Is  told,  and  by  an  honest  Chronicler.* 

Two 'of  his  sons,  GIOVANNI  and  GARZIA, 
(The  eldest  had  not  seen  his  nineteenth  summer) 
Went  to  the  chase;  but  only  one  returned. 
GIOVANNI,  when  the  huntsman  blew  his  horn 
O'er  the  last  stag  had  started  from  the  brake, 
And  in  the  heather  turned  to  stand  at  bay, 
Appeared  not ;  and  at  close  of  day  was  found 
Bathed  in  his  innocent  blood.     Too  well,  alas, 
The  trembling  COSMO  guessed  the  deed,  the  doer ; 
And,  having  caused  the  body  to  be  borne 
In  secret  to  that  Chamber  —  at  an  hour 
When  all  slept  sound,  save  she  who  bore  them  both,f 
Who  little  thought  of  what  was  yet  to  come, 
And  lived  but  to  be  told  —  he  bade  GARZIA 
Arise  and  follow  him.     Holding  in  one  hand 
A  winking  lamp,  and  in  the  other  a  key 
Massive  and  dungeon-like,  thither  he  led: 
And,  having  entered  in  and  locked  the  door, 
The  father  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  son, 
And  closely  questioned  him.     No  change  betrayed 
Or  guilt  or  fear.     Then  COSMO  lifted  up 

*  DJE  THOU.  -j-  ELEONORA  m  TOLEDO. 


^- 

^  Two  of  t:  "OTAiTNi  and. - 

!  Tke  eldest  liad  not  seen,  r.is  run.ete&nth  summei 
Went  to  the  cl.'  ~-r  or.e  returned 


i 


4 


'*' 


ITALY.  299 

The  bloody  sheet.     *  Look  there  !  Look  there  ! '  he  cried. 

'Blood  calls  for  blood  —  and  from  a  father's  hand! 

—  Unless  thyself  will  save  him  that  sad  office. 

What ! '  he  exclaimed,  when  shuddering  at  the  sight, 

The  boy  breathed  out,  'I  stood  but  on  my  guard.' 

'  Dar'st  thou  then  blacken  one  who  never  wronged  thee. 

Who  would  not  set  his  foot  upon  a  worm? 

Yes,  thou  must  die,  lest  others  fall  by  thee, 

And  thou  shouldst  be  the  slayer  of  us  all.' 

Then  from  GAKZIA'S  belt  he  drew  the  blade, 

The  fatal  one  which  spilt  his  brother's  blood; 

And,  kneeling  on  the  ground,  '  Great  God ! '  he  cried, 

'  Grant  me  the  strength  to  do  an  act  of  Justice. 

Thou  knowest  what  it  costs  me;  but  alas, 

How  can  I  spare  myself,  sparing  none  else  ? 

Grant  me  the  strength,  the  will  —  and  oh  forgive 

The  sinful  soul  of  a  most  wretched  son. 

'Tis  a  most  wretched  father  that  implores  it.' 

Long  on  GARZIA'S  neck  he  hung  and  wept, 

Long  pressed  him  to  his  bosom  tenderly; 

And  then,  but  while  he  held  him  by  the  arm, 

Thrusting  him  backward,  turned  away  his  face, 

And  stabbed  him  to  the  heart. 

Well  might  a  Youth,* 

Studious  of  men,  anxious  to  learn  and  know, 
When  in  the  train  of  some  great  embassy 
He  came,  a  visitant,  to  COSMO'S  court, 
Think  on  the  past;  and,  as  he  wandered  through 
The  ample  spaces  of  an  ancient  house,f 

*  DE  THOU. 

f  The  Palazzo  Vecchio.     COSMO  had  left  it  several  years  beforet 


300  ITALY. 

Silent,  deserted  —  stop  awhile  to  dwell 
Upon  two  portraits  there,  drawn  on  the  wall 
Together,  as  of  Two  in  bonds  of  love, 
Those  of  the  unhappy  brothers,  and  conclude 
From  the  sad  looks  of  him  who  could  have  told, 

The  terrible  truth. Well  might  he  heave  a  sigh 

For  poor  humanity,  when  he  beheld 

Tkat  very  COSMO  shaking  o'er  his  fire, 

Drowsy  and  deaf  and  inarticulate, 

Wrapt  in  his  night-gown,  o'er  a  sick  man's  mess, 

In  the  last  stage  —  death-struck  and  deadly  pale ; 

His  wife,  another,  not  his  ELEANOR, 

At  once  his  nurse  and  his  interpreter. 


THE  CAMPAGNA  OF  FLORENCE. 

'Tis  morning.     Let  us  wander  through  the  fields. 
Where  CIMABUE  found  a  shepherd-boy* 
Tracing  his  idle  fancies  on  the  ground; 
And  let  us  from  the  top  of  FIESOLE, 
Whence  GALILEO'S  glass  by  night  observed 
The  phases  of  the  moon,  look  round  below 
On  ARNO'S  vale,  where  the  dove-coloured  steer 
Is  ploughing  up  and  down  among  the  vines, 
While  many  a  careless  note  is  sung  aloud, 
Filling  the  air  with  sweetness  —  and  on  thee, 
Beautiful  FLORENCE,  all  within  thy  walls, 
Thy  groves  and  gardens,  pinnacles  and  towers, 
Drawn  to  our  feet. 

*  GIOTTO. 


ITALY.  301 

From  that  small  spire,  just  caught 
By  the  bright  ray,  that  church  among  the  rest 
By  One  of  Old  distinguished  as  The  Bride,* 
Let  us  in  thought  pursue  (what  can  we  better  ?) 
Those  who  assembled  there  at  matin-time  ;f 
Who,  when  Vice  revelled  and  along  the  street 
Tables  were  set,  what  time  the  bearer's  bell 
Rang  to  demand  the  dead  at  every  door, 
Came  out  into  the  meadows ;  and,  awhile 
Wandering  in  idleness,  but  not  in  folly, 
Sat  down  in  the  high  grass  and  in  the  shade 
Of  many  a  tree  sun-proof — day  after  day, 
When  all  was  still  and  nothing  to  be  heard 
But  the  cicala's  voice  among  the  olives, 
Relating  in  a  ring,  to  banish  care, 
Their  hundred  tales.     Round  the  green  hill  they  went, 
Round  underneath  —  first  to  a  splendid  house, 
Gherardi,  as  an  old  tradition  runs, 
That  on  the  left,  just  rising  from  the  vale; 
A  place  for  Luxury  —  the  painted  rooms, 
The  open  galleries  and  middle  court 
Not  unprepared,  fragrant  and  gay  with  flowers. 
Then  westward  to  another,  nobler  yet ; 
That  on  the  right,  now  known  as  the  Palmieri, 
Where  Art  with  Nature  vied  —  a  Paradise 
With  verdurous  walls,  and  many  a  trellised  walk 
All  rose  and  jasmine,  many  a  twilight-glade 
Crossed  by  the  deer.     Then  to  the  Ladies'  Vale; 
And  the  clear  lake,  that  as  by  magic  seemed 

*  Santa  Maria  Novella.     For  its  grace  and  beauty  it  was  called  by 
Michael  Angelo  '  La  Sposa.' 

J-  In  the  year  of  the  Great  Plague.     See  the  Decameron. 

26 


302  ITALY. 

To  lift  up  to  the  surface  every  stone 
Of  lustre  there,  and  the  diminutive  fish 
Innumerable,  dropt  with  crimson  and  gold, 
Now  motionless,  now  glancing  to  the  sun. 

Who  has  not  dwelt  on  their  voluptuous  day? 
The  morning-banquet  by  the  fountain-side, 
While  the  small  birds  rejoiced  on  every  bough ; 
The  dance  that  followed,  and  the  noon-tide  slumber; 
Then  the  tales  told  in  turn,  as  round  they  lay 
On  carpets,  the  fresh  waters  murmuring; 
And  the  short  interval  of  pleasant  talk 
Till  supper- time,  when  many  a  siren-voice 
Sung  down  the  stars;  and,  as  they  left  the  sky, 
The  torches,  planted  in  the  sparkling  grass, 
And  every  where  among  the  glowing  flowers, 
Burnt  bright  and  brighter. 

He,*  whose  dream  it  was, 

(It  was  no  more)  sleeps  in  a  neighbouring  vale ; 
Sleeps  in  the  church,  where,  in  his  ear,  I  ween, 
The  Friar  poured  out  his  wondrous  catalogue  ;f 
A  ray,  imprimis,  of  the  star  that  shone 
To  the  Wise  Men;  a  vial-ful  of  sounds, 
The  musical  chimes  of  the  great  bells  that  hung 
In  SOLOMON'S  Temple ;  and,  though  last  not  least, 
A  feather  from  the  Angel  GABRIEL'S  wing 
Dropt  in  the  Virgin's  chamber.     That  dark  ridge, 
Stretching  south-east,  conceals  it  from  our  sight; 
Not  so  his  lowly  roof  and  scanty  farm, 
His  copse  and  rill,  if  yet  a  trace  be  left, 
Who  lived  in  Val  di  Pesa,  suffering  long 

*  BOCCACIO.  f  Decameron,  vi,  10. 


ITALY.  303 

Want  and  neglect  and  (far,  far  worse)  reproach, 

With  calm,  unclouded  mind.*     The  glimmering  tower 

On  the  grey  rock  beneath,  his  land-mark  once, 

Now  serves  for  ours,  and  points  out  where  he  ate 

His  bread  with  cheerfulness.     Who  sees  him  not 

('Tis  his  own  sketch  —  he  drew  it  from  himself) 

Laden  with  cages  from  his  shoulder  slung, 

And  sallying  forth,  while  yet  a  morn  is  grey, 

To  catch  a  thrush  on  every  lime-twig  there; 

Or  in  the  wood  among  his  wood-cutters; 

Or  in  the  tavern  by  the  highway-side 

At  tric-trac  with  the  miller;  or  at  night, 

Doffing  his  rustic  suit,  and  duly  clad, 

Entering  his  closet,  and,  among  his  books, 

Among  the  Great  of  every  age  and  clime, 

A  numerous  court,  turning  to  whom  he  pleased, 

Questioning  each  why  he  did  this  or  that, 

And  learning  how,  to  overcome  the  fear 

Of  poverty  and  death. Nearer  we  hail 

Thy  sunny  slope,  ARCETRI,  sung  of  Old 
For  its  green  wine ;  dearer  to  me,  to  most, 
As  dwelt  on  by  that  great  Astronomer, 
Seven  years  a  prisoner  at  the  city-gate, 
Let  in  but  in  his  grave-clothes.     Sacred  be 
His  villa  (justly  was  it  called  The  Gem !) 
Sacred  the  lawn,  where  many  a  cypress  threw 
Its  length  of  shadow,  while  he  watched  the  stars ! 
Sacred  the  vineyard,  where,  while  yet  his  sight 
Glimmered,  at  blush  of  morn  he  dressed  his  vines, 
Chanting  aloud  in  gaiety  of  heart 

*  MACHIAVEL. 


304  ITALY. 

Some  verse  of  ARIOSTO  !     There,  unseen, 

In  manly  beauty  MILTON  stood  before  him, 

Gazing  with  reverent  awe — MILTON,  his  guest, 

Just  then  come  forth,  all  life  and  enterprise ; 

He  in  his  old  age  and  extremity, 

Blind,  at  noon-day  exploring  with  his  staff; 

His  eyes  upturned  as  to  the  golden  sun, 

His  eye-balls  idly  rolling.     Little  then 

Did  GALILEO  think  whom  he  received; 

That  in  his  hand  he  held  the  hand  of  one 

Who  could  requite  him  —  who  would  spread  his  name 

O'er  lands  and  seas  —  great ,  as  himself,  nay  greater; 

MILTON,  as  little  that  in  him  he  saw, 

As  in  a  glass,  what  he  himself  should  be, 

Destined  so  soon  to  fall  on  evil  days 

And  evil  tongues  —  so  soon,  alas,  to  live 

In  darkness,  and  with  dangers  compassed  round, 

And  solitude. 

Well-pleased,  could  we  pursue 
The  ARNO,  from  his  birth-place  in  the  clouds, 
So  near  the  yellow  TIBER'S  —  springing  up 
From  his  four  fountains  on  the  Apennine, 
That  mountain-ridge  a  sea-mark  to  the  ships 
Sailing  on  either  sea.     Downward  he  runs, 
Scattering  fresh  verdure  through  the  desolate  wild, 
Down  by  the  City  of  Hermits,*  .and  the  woods 
That  only  echo  to  the  choral  hymn ; 
Then  through  these  gardens  to  the  TUSCAN  sea, 
Reflecting  castles,  convents,  villages, 
And  those  great  Rivals  in  an  elder  day, 

*  II  Sagro  Eremo. 


ITALY.  305 

FLORENCE  and  PISA — who  have  given  him  fame, 
Fame  everlasting,  but  who  stained  so  oft 
His  troubled  waters.     Oft,  alas,  were  seen, 
When  flight,  pursuit,  and  hideous  rout  were  there, 
Hands,  clad  in  gloves  of  steel,  held  up  imploring; 
The  man,  the  hero,  on  his  foaming  steed 
Borne  underneath,  already  in  the  realms 
Of  Darkness. —  Nor  did  night  or  burning  noon 
Bring  respite.     Oft,  as  that  great  Artist  saw,* 
Whose  pencil  had  a  voice,  the  cry  '  To  arms  ! ' 
And  the  shrill  trumpet,  hurried  up  the  bank 
Those  who  had  stolen  an  hour  to  breast  the  tide, 
And  wash  from  their  unharnessed  limbs  the  blood 
And  sweat  of  battle.     Sudden  was  the  rush,f 
Violent  the  tumult ;  for,  already  in  sight, 
Nearer  and  nearer  yet  the  danger  drew; 
Each  every  sinew  straining,  every  nerve, 
Each  snatching  up,  and  girding,  buckling  on 
Morion  and  greave  and  shirt  of  twisted  mail, 
As  for  his  life  —  no  more  perchance  to  taste, 
ARNO,  the  grateful  freshness  of  thy  glades, 
Thy  waters  —  where,  exulting,  he  had  felt 
A  swimmer's  transport,  there,  alas,  to  float 
And  welter. 

Nor  between  the  gusts  of  War, 
When  flocks  were  feeding,  and  the  shepherd's  pipe 
Gladdened  the  valley,  when,  but  not  unarmed, 
The  sower  came  forth,  and  following  him  that  ploughed, 
Threw  in  the  seed  —  did  thy  indignant  waves 
Escape  pollution.     Sullen  was  the  splash, 

*  MICHAEL  AXGELO.  f  A  description  of  the  Cartoon  of  Pisa. 

26*  2o 


306  ITALY. 

Heavy  and  swift  the  plunge,  when  they  received 

The  key  that  just  had  grated  on  the  ear 

Of  UGOLINO,  ever-closing  up 

That  dismal  dungeon  thenceforth  to  be  named 

The  Tower  of  Famine. Once  indeed  'twas  thine, 

When  many  a  winter-flood,  thy  tributary, 

Was  through  its  rocky  glen  rushing,  resounding, 

And  thou  wert  in  thy  might,  to  save,  restore 

A  charge  most  precious.     To  the  nearest  ford, 

Hastening,  a  horseman  from  Arezzo  came, 

Careless,  impatient  of  delay,  a  babe 

Slung  in  a  basket  to  the  knotty  staff 

That  lay  athwart  his  saddle-bow.     He  spurs, 

He  enters;  and  his  horse,  alarmed,  perplexed, 

Halts  in  the  midst.     Great  is  the  stir,  the  strife; 

And  lo,  an  atom  on  that  dangerous  sea, 

The  babe  is  floating !     Fast  and  far  he  flies ; 

Now  tempest-rocked,  now  whirling  round  and  round, 

But  not  to  perish.     By  thy  willing  waves 

Borne  to  the  shore,  among  the  bulrushes 

The  ark  has  rested;  and  unhurt,  secure, 

As  on  his  mother's  breast  he  sleeps  within, 

All  peace !  or  never  had  the  nations  heard 

That  voice  so  sweet,  which  still  enchants,  inspires; 

That  voice,  which  sung  of  love,  of  liberty. 

PETRARCH  lay  there! 

And  such  the  images 

That  here  spring  up  for  ever,  in  the  Young 
Kindling  poetic  fire !     Such  they  that  came 
And  clustered  round  our  MILTON,  when  at  eve, 
Reclined  beside  thee,  ARNO  ;  when  at  eve, 
Led  on  by  thee,  he  wandered  with  delight, 


ITALY.  307 

Framing  Ovidian  verse,  and  through  thy  groves 
Gathering  wild  myrtle.     Such  the  Poet's  dreams; 
Yet  not  such  only.     For  look  round  and  say, 
Where  is  the  ground  that  did  not  drink  warm  blood, 
The  echo  that  had  learnt  not  to  articulate 

The  cry  of  murder? Fatal  was  the  day* 

To  FLORENCE,  when  ('twas  in  a  narrow  street 
North  of  that  temple,  where  the  truly  great 
Sleep,  not  unhonoured,  not  un visited; 
That  temple  sacred  to  the  Holy  Cross  — 
There  is  the  house  —  that  house  of  the  DONATI, 
Towerless,  and  left  long  since,  but  to  the  last 
Braving  assault  —  all  rugged,  all  embossed 
Below,  and  still  distinguished  by  the  rings 
Of  brass,  that  held  in  war  and  festival-time 
Their  family-standards)  fatal  was  the  day 
To  FLORENCE,  when,  at  morn,  at  the  ninth  hour, 
A  noble  Dame  in  weeds  of  widowhood, 
Weeds  by  so  many  to  be  worn  so  soon, 
Stood  at  her  door ;  and,  like  a  sorceress,  flung 
Her  dazzling  spell. 

Subtle  she  was,  and  rich, 
Rich  in  a  hidden  pearl  of  heavenly  light, 
Her  daughter's  beauty;  and  too  well  she  knew 
Its  virtue !     Patiently-  she  stood  and  watched ; 
Nor  stood  alone  —  but  spoke  not  —  In  her  breast 
Her  purpose  lay ;  and,  as  a  Youth  passed  by, 
Clad  for  the  nuptial  rite,  she  smiled  and  said, 
Lifting  a  corner  of  the  maiden's  veil, 
'This  had  I  treasured  up  in  secret  for  thee. 

*    *  See  Note. 


308  ITALY. 

This  hast  thou  lost ! '     He  gazed  and  was  undone ! 
Forgetting  —  not  forgot  —  he  broke  the  bond, 
And  paid  the  penalty,  losing  his  life 
At  the  bridge-foot ;  and  hence  a  world  of  woe ! 
Vengeance  for  vengeance  crying,  blood  for  blood; 
No  intermission !     Law,  that  slumbers  not, 
And,  like  the  Angel  with  the  flaming  sword, 
Sits  over  all,  at  once  chastising,  healing, 
Himself  the  Avenger,  went;  and  every  street 
Ran  red  with  mutual  slaughter  —  tho'  sometimes 
The  young  forgot  the  lesson  they  had  learnt, 
And  loved  when  they  should  hate  —  like  thee, 
Thee  and  thy  PAOLO.     When  last  ye  met 
In  that  still  hour  (the  heat,  the  glare  was  gone, 
Not  so  the  splendour  —  thro'  the  cedar-grove 
A  radiance  streamed  like  a  consuming  fire, 
As  tho'  the  glorious  orb,  in  its  descent, 
Had  come  and  rested  there)  when  last  ye  met, 
And  thy  relentless  brothers  dragged  him  forth, 
It  had  been  well,  hadst  thou  slept  on,  IMELDA, 
Nor  from  thy  trance  of  fear  awaked,  as  night 
Fell  on  that  fatal  spot,  to  wish  thee  dead, 
To  track  him  by  his  blood,  to  search,  to  find, 
Then  fling  thee  down  to  catch  a  word,  a  look, 
A  sigh,  if  yet  thou  couldst  (alas,  thou  couldst  not) 
And  die,  unseen,  unthought  of — from  the  wound 
Sucking  the  poison.* 

Yet,  when  Slavery  came, 

Worse  followed.     Genius,  Valour  left  the  land, 
Indignant  —  all  that  had  from  age  to  age 

*  See  Npte. 


ITALY.  309 

Adorned,  ennobled;  and  headlong  they  fell, 

Tyrant  and  slave.     For  deeds  of  violence, 

Done  in  broad  day  and  more  than  half  redeemed 

By  many  a  great  and  generous  sacrifice 

Of  self  to  others,  came  the  unpledged  bowl, 

The  stab  of  the  stiletto.     Gliding  by 

Unnoticed,  in  slouched  hat  and  muffling  cloak, 

That  just  discovered,  Caravaggio-like, 

A  swarthy  cheek,  black  brow,  and  eye  of  flame, 

The  Bravo  stole,  and  o'er  the  shoulder  plunged 

To  the  heart's  core,  or  from  beneath  the  ribs 

Slanting  (a  surer  path,  as  some  averred) 

Struck  upward  —  then  slunk  off,  or,  if  pursued, 

Made  for  the  Sanctuary,  and  there  along 

The  glimmering  aisle  among  the  worshippers 

Wandered  with  restless  step  and  jealous  look, 

Dropping  thick  blood. —  Misnamed  to  lull  alarm, 

In  every  Palace  was  The  Laboratory, 

Where  he  within  brewed  poisons  swift  and  slow, 

That  scattered  terror  'till  all  things  seemed  poisonous, 

And  brave  men  trembled  if  a  hand  held  out 

A  nosegay  or  a  letter ;  while  the  Great 

Drank  only  from  the  Venice-glass,  that  broke, 

That  shivered,  scattering  round  it  as  in  scorn, 

If  aught  malignant,  aught  of  thine  was  there, 

Cruel  TOPHANA  ;  and  pawned  provinces 

For  that  miraculous  gem,  the  gem  that  gave 

A  sign  infallible  of  coming  ill, 

That  clouded  though  the  vehicle  of  death 

Were  an  invisible  perfume.     Happy  then 

The  guest  to  whom  at  sleeping-time  'twas  said, 

But  in  an  under-voice  (a  lady's  page 


310  ITALY. 

Speaks  in  no  louder)  'Pass  not  on.     That  door 
Leads  to  another  which  awaits  thy  coming, 
One  in  the  floor  —  now  left,  alas,  unlocked. 
No  eye  detects  it  —  lying  under-foot, 
Just  as  thou  enterest,  at  the  threshold-stone ; 
Ready  to  fall  and  plunge  thee  into  night 
And  long  oblivion ! 

In  that  Evil  Hour 

Where  lurked  not  danger?     Thro'  the  fairy-land 
No  seat  of  pleasure  glittering  half-way  down, 
No  hunting-place  —  but  with  some  damning  spot 
That  will  not  be  washed  out !     There,  at  Caiano, 
Where,  when  the  hawks  were  mewed  and  evening  came, 
PULCI  would  set  the  table  in  a  roar 
With  his  wild  lay  —  there,  where  the  Sun  descends, 
And  hill  and  dale  are  lost,  veiled  with  his  beams, 
The  fair  Venetian*  died,  she  and  her  lord  — 
Died  of  a  posset  drugged  by  him  who  sat 
And  saw  them  suffer,  flinging  back  the  charge ; 
The  murderer  on  the  murdered. 

Sobs  of  Grief, 

Sounds  inarticulate  -  -  suddenly  stopt, 
And  followed  by  a  struggle  and  a  gasp, 
A  gasp  in  death,  are  heard  yet  in  Cerreto, 
Along  the  marble  halls  and  staircases, 
Nightly  at  twelve;  and,  at  the  self-same  hour, 
Shrieks,  such  as  penetrate  the  inmost  soul, 
Such  as  awake  the  innocent  babe  to  long, 
Long  wailing,  echo  thro'  the  emptiness 
Of  that  old  den  far  up  among  the  hills,f 

*  BIANCA  CAPEILO.  j-  See  Note. 


.ITALY.  311 

Frowning  on  him  who  comes  from  Pietra-Mala; 
In  them,  alas,  within  five  days  and  less, 
Two  unsuspecting  victims,  passing  fair, 
Welcomed  with  kisses,  and  slain  cruelly, 
One  with  the  knife,  one  with  the  fatal  noose. 
But,  lo,  the  Sun  is  setting ;  earth  and  sky 
One  blaze  of  glory — What  we  saw  but  now, 
As  though  it  were  not,  though  it  had  not  been ! 
He  lingers  yet;  and,  lessening  to  a  point, 
Shines  like  the  eye  of  Heaven  —  then  withdraws ; 
And  from  the  zenith  to  the  utmost  skirts 
All  is  celestial  red !     The  hour  is  come, 
When  they  that  sail  along  the  distant  seas, 
Languish  for  home ;  and  they  that  in  the  morn 
Said  to  sweet  friends  'farewell,'  melt  as  at  parting; 
When,  just  gone  forth,  the  pilgrim,  if  he  hears, 
As  now  we  hear  it  —  echoing  round  the  hill, 
The  bell  that  seems  to  mourn  the  dying  day, 
Slackens  his  pace  and  sighs,  and  those  he  loved 
Loves  more  than  ever.     But  who  feels  it  not? 
And  well  we  may,  for  we  are  far  away. 


THE  PILGRIM. 

IT  was  an  hour  of  universal  joy. 
The  lark  was  up  and  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 
Singing,  as  sure  to  enter  when  he  came ; 
The  butterfly  was  basking  in  my  path, 
His  radiant  wings  unfolded.     From  below 
The  bell  of  prayer  rose  slowly,  plaintively ; 
And  odours,  such  as  welcome  in  the  day, 


312  ITALY. 

Such  as  salute  the  early  traveller, 
And  come  and  go,  each  sweeter  than  the  last, 
Were  rising.     Hill  and  valley  breathed  delight; 
And  not  a  living  thing  but  blest  the  hour! 
In  every  bush  and  brake  there  was  a  voice 

Responsive! From  the  THRASYMENE,  that  now 

Slept  in  the  sun,  a  lake  of  molten  gold, 

And  from  the  shore  that  once,  when  armies  met, 

Rocked  to  and  fro  unfelt,  so  terrible 

The  rage,  the  slaughter,  I  had  turned  away; 

The  path,  that  led  me,  leading  through  a  wood, 

A  fairy-wilderness  of  fruits  and  flowers, 

And  by  a  brook  that,  in  the  day  of  strife, 

Ran  blood,  but  now  runs  amber  —  when  a  glade, 

Far,  far  within,  sunned  only  at  noon-day, 

Suddenly  opened.     Many  a  bench  was  there, 

Each  round  its  ancient  elm;  and  many  a  track, 

Well-known  to  them  that  from  the  high-way  loved 

Awhile  to  deviate.     In  the  midst  a  cross 

Of  mouldering  stone  as  in  a  temple  stood, 

Solemn,  severe;  coeval  with  the  trees 

That  round  it  in  majestic  order  rose ; 

And  on  the  lowest  step  a  Pilgrim  knelt 

In  fervent  prayer.     He  was  the  first  I  saw, 

(Save  in  the  tumult  of  a  midnight-masque, 

A  revel,  where  none  cares  to  play  his  part, 

And  they,  that  speak,  at  once  dissolve  the  charm) 

The  first  in  sober  truth,  no  counterfeit; 

And,  when  his  orisons  were  duly  paid, 

He  rose,  and  we  exchanged,  as  all  are  wont, 

A  traveller's  greeting. Young,  and  of  an  age 

When  Youth  is  most  attractive,  when  a  light 


ITALY.  313 

Plays  round  and  round,  reflected,  while  it  lasts, 
From  some  attendant  Spirit,  that  ere  long 
(His  charge  relinquished  with  a  sigh,  a  tear) 
Wings  his  flight  upward  —  with  a  look  he  won 
My  favour ;  and,  the  spell  of  silence  broke, 

I  could  not  but  continue. 'Whence/  I  asked, 

1  Whence  art  thou  ? ' — '  From  Mont'alto,'  he  replied, 

'My  native  village  in  the  Apennines.' — 

*  And  whither  journeying  ? ' — '  To  the  holy  shrine 

Of  Saint  Antonio  in  the  City  of  PADUA. 

Perhaps,  if  thou  hast  ever  gone  so  far, 

Thou  wilt  direct  my  course.' — 'Most  willingly; 

But  thou  hast  much  to  do,  much  to  endure, 

Ere  thou  hast  entered  where  the  silver  lamps 

^urn  ever.     Tell  me  ...  I  would  not  transgress, 

Yet  ask  I  must  .  .  .  what  could  have  brought  thee  forth, 

Nothing  in  act  or  thought  to  be  atoned  for?' — 

'It  was  a  vow  I  made  in  my  distress. 

We  were  so  blest,  none  were  so  blest  as  we, 

Till  Sickness  came.     First,  as  death-struck,  I  fell; 

Then  my  beloved  Sister;  and  ere  long, 

Worn  with  continual  watchings,  night  and  day, 

Our  saint-like  mother.     Worse  and  worse  she  grew; 

And  in  my  anguish,  my  despair,  I  vowed, 

That  if  she  lived,  if  Heaven  restored  her  to  us, 

I  would  forthwith,  and  in  a  Pilgrim's  weeds, 

Visit  that  holy  shrine.     My  vow  was  heard; 

And  therefore  am  I  come.' — 'Blest  be  thy  steps; 

And  may  those  weeds,  so  reverenced  of  old, 

Guard  thee  in  danger.' 'They  are  nothing  worth, 

But  they  are  worn  in  humble  confidence; 
Nor  would  I  for  the  richest  robe  resign  them, 
27  2p 


314  ITALY. 

Wrought,  as  they  were,  by  those  I  love  so  well, 

Lauretta  and  my  sister;  theirs  the  task, 

But  none  to  them,  a  pleasure,  a  delight, 

To  ply  their  utmost  skill,  and  send  me  forth 

As  best  became  this  service.     Their  last  words, 

"  Fare  thee  well,  Carlo.     We  shall  count  the  hours  ! " 

"Will  not  go  from  me.' 'Health  and  strength  be  thine 

In  thy  long  travel !     May  no  sun-beam  strike ; 

No  vapour  cling  and  wither!     May'st  thou  be, 

Sleeping  or  wakingy  sacred  and  secure ! 

And,  when  again  thou  comest,  thy  labour  do^' 

Joy  be  among  ye !     In  that  happy  hor' 

All  will  pour  forth  to  bid  thee  welcome,  Carlo; 

And  there  is  one,  or  I  am  much  deceived, 

One  thou  hast  named,  who  will  not  be  the  last.' — 

'  Oh,  she  is  true  as  Truth  itself  can  be ! 

But  ah,  thou  know'st  her  not.     Would  that  thou  didst ! 

My  steps  I  quicken  when  I  think  of  her; 

For,  though  they  take  me  further  from  her  door, 

I  shall  return  the  sooner.' 


AN  INTERVIEW. 

PLEASURE,  that  comes  unlooked-for,  is  thrice-welcome; 
And,  if  it  stir  the  heart,  if  aught  be  there, 
That  may  hereafter  in  a  thoughtful  hour 
Wake  but  a  sigh,  'tis  treasured  up  among 
The  things  most  precious;  and  the  day  it  came 
Is  noted  as  a  white  day  in  our  lives. 

The  sun  was  wheeling  westward,  and  the  cliffs 
And  nodding  woods,  that  everlastingly 


ITALY.  315 

(Such  the  dominion  of  thy  mighty  voice, 

Thy  voice,  VELINO,  uttered  in  the  mist) 

Hear  thee  and  answer  thee,  were  left  at  length 

For  others  stilT  as  noon;  and  on  we  strayed 

From  wild  to  wilder,  nothing  hospitable 

Seen  up  or  down,  or  bush  or  green  or  dry, 

That  ancient  symbol  at  the  cottage-door, 

Offering  refreshment  —  when  LUIGI  cried, 

'  Well,  of  a  thousand  tracks  we  chose  the  best ! ' 

And,  turning  round  an  oak,  oracular  once, 

Now,  lightning-struck,  a  cave,  a  thorough-fare 

For  all  that  came,  each  entrance  a  broad  arch, 

Whence  many  a  deer,  rustling  his  velvet  coat, 

Had  issued,  many  a  gipsy  and  her  brood 

Peered  forth,  then  housed  again  —  the  floor  yet  grey 

With  ashes,  and  the  sides,  where  roughest,  hung 

Loosely  with  locks  of  hair  —  I  looked  and  saw 

What,  seen  in  such  an  hour  by  Sancho  Panza, 

Had  given  his  honest  countenance  a  breadth, 

His  cheeks  a  flush  of  pleasure  and  surprise 

Unknown  before,  had  chained  him  to  the  spot, 

And  thou,  Sir  Knight,  hadst  traversed  hill  and  dale, 

Squire-less.     Below  and  winding  far  away, 

A  narrow  glade  unfolded,  such  as  Spring 

Broiders  with  flowers,  and,  when  the  moon  is  high, 

The  hare  delights  to  race  in,  scattering  round 

The  silvery  dews.     Cedar  and  cypress  threw 

Singly  their  depth  of  shadow,  chequering 

The  greensward,  and,  what  grew  in  frequent  tufts, 

An  underwood  of  myrtle,  that  by  fits 

Sent  up  a  gale  of  fragrance.     Through  the  midst, 

Reflecting,  as  it  ran,  purple  and  gold,. 


316  ITALY. 

A  rain-bow's  splendour  (somewhere  in  the  east 
Rain-drops  were  falling  fast)  a  rivulet 
Sported  as  loth  to  go;  and  on  the  bank 
Stood  (in  the  eyes  of  one,  if  not  of  both, 
Worth  all  the  rest  and  more)  a  sumpter-mule 
Well-laden,  while  two  menials  as  in  haste 
Drew  from  his  ample  panniers,  ranging  round 
Viands  and  fruits  on  many  a  shining  salver, 
And  plunging  in  the  cool  translucent  wave 

Flasks  of  delicious  wine. Anon  a  horn 

Blew,  through  the  champain  bidding  to  the  feast, 

Its  jocund  note  to  other  ears  addressed, 

Not  ours ;  and,  slowly  coming  by  a  path, 

That,  ere  it  issued  from  an  ilex-grove, 

Was  seen  far  inward,  though  along  the  glade 

Distinguished  only  by  a  fresher  verdure, 

Peasants  approached,  one  leading  in  a  leash 

Beagles  yet  panting,  one  with  various  game, 

In  rich  confusion  slung,  before,  behind, 

Leveret  and  quail  and  pheasant.     All  announced 

The  chase  as  over ;  and  ere  long  appeared, 

Their  horses  full  of  fire,  champing  the  curb, 

For  the  white  foam  was  dry  upon  the  flank, 

Two  in  close  converse,  each  in  each  delighting, 

Their  plumage  waving  as  instinct  with  life ; 

A  Lady  young  and  graceful,  and  a  Youth, 

Yet  younger,  bearing  on  a  falconer's  glove, 

As  in  the  golden,  the  romantic  time, 

His  falcon  hooded.     Like  some  spirit  of  air, 

Or  fairy-vision,  such  as  feigned  of  old. 

The  Lady,  while  her  courser  pawed  'the  ground, 

Alighted;  and  her  beauty,  as,  she  trod 


ITALY.  317 

The  enamelled  bank,  bruising  nor  herb  nor  flower, 
That  place  illumined.     Ah,  who  should  she  be, 
And  with  her  brother,  as  when  last  we  met, 
(When  the  first  lark  had  sung  ere  half  was  said, 
And  as  she  stood,  bidding  adieu,  her  voice, 
So  sweet  it  was,  recalled  me  like  a  spell) 

Who  but  Angelica? That  day  we  gave 

To  pleasure,  and,  unconscious  of  their  flight, 

Another  and  another !  hers  a  home 

Dropt  from  the  sky  amid  the  wild  and  rude, 

Loretto-like ;  where  all  was  as  a  dream, 

A  dream  spun  out  of  some  Arabian  tale 

Read  or  related  in  a  roseate  bower, 

Some  balmy  eve.     The  rising  moon  we  hailed, 

Duly,  devoutly,  from  a  vestibule 

Of  many  an  arch,  o'er-wrought  and  lavishly 

With  many  a  labyrinth  of  sylphs  and  flowers, 

When  RAPHAEL  and  his  school  from  FLORENCE  came, 

Filling  the  land  with  splendour  —  nor  less  oft 

Watched  her,  declining,  from  a  silent  dell, 

Not  silent  once,  what  time  in  rivalry 

TASSO,  GUARINI,  waved  their  wizard-wands, 

Peopling  the  groves  from  Arcady,  and  lo, 

Fair  forms  appeared,  murmuring  melodious  verse, 

—  Then,  in  their  day,  a  sylvan  theatre, 

Mossy  the  seats,  the  stage  a  verdurous  floor, 

The  scenery  rock  and  shrub-wood,  Nature's  own; 

Nature  the  Architect. 


27 


318  ITALY. 


MONTORIO. 

GENEROTTS,  and  ardent,  and  as  romantic  as-  he  could  be, 
MONTORIO  was  in  his  earliest  youth,  when,  on  a  summer- 
evening,  not  many  years  ago,  he  arrived  at  the  Baths  of 
*  *  *.  With  a  heavy  heart,  and  with  many  a  blessing  on 
his  head,  he  had  set  out  on  his  travels  at  day-break.  It 
was  his  first  flight  from  home ;  but  he  was  now  to  enter 
the  world ;  and  the  moon  was  up  and  in  the  zenith,  when 
he  alighted  at  the  Three  Moors,*  a  venerable  house  of 
vast  dimensions,  and  anciently  a  palace  of  the  Albertini 
family,  whose  arms  were  emblazoned  on  the  walls. 

Every  window  was  full  of  light,  and  great  was  the  stir, 
above  and  below ;  but  his  thoughts  were  on  those  he  had 
left  so  lately ;  and  retiring  early  to  rest,  and  to  a  couch, 
the  very  first  for  which  he  had  ever  exchanged  his  own, 
he  was  soon  among  them  once  more ;  undisturbed  in  his 
sleep  by  the  music  that  came  at  intervals  from  a  pavilion 
in  the  garden,  where  some  of  the  company  had  assembled 
to  dance. 

But,  secluded  as  he  was,  he  was  not  secure  from  intru- 
sion ;  and  Fortune  resolved  on  that  night  to  play  a  frolic 
in  his  chamber,  a  frolic  that  was  to  determine  the  colour 
of  his  life.  Boccaccio  himself  has  not  recorded  a  wilder ; 
nor  would  he,  if  he  had  known  it,  have  left  the  story 
untold. 

At  the  first  glimmering  of  day  he  awaked ;  and,  look- 
ing round,  he  beheld  —  it  could  not  be  an  illusion;  yet 

*  I  Tre  Mauri. 


ITALY.  319 

any  thing  so  lovely,  so  angelical,  he  had  never  seen  before 
— no,  not  even  in  his  dreams — a  Lady  still  younger  than 
himself,  and  in  the  profoundest,  the  sweetest  slumber  by 
his  side.  But  while  he  gazed,  she  was  gone,  and  thr  sugh 
a  door  that  had  escaped  his  notice.  Like  a  Zer*1  /  ^ /dhe 
trod  the  floor  with  her  dazzling  and  beautiful  ieet,  and, 
while  he  gazed,  she  was  gone.  Yet  still  lie  gazed ;  and, 
snatching  up  a  bracelet  which  she  had  dropt  in  her  flight, 
'  Then  she  is  earthly ! '  he  cried.  '  But  whence  could  she 
come  ?  All  innocence,  all  purity,  she  must  have  wandered 
in  her  sleep.' 

When  he  arose,  his  anxious  eyes  sought  her  every 
where ;  but  in  vain.  Many  of  the  young  and  the  gay  were 
abroad,  and  moving  as  usual  in  the  light  of  the  morning ; 
but,  among  them  all,  there  was  nothing  like  Her.  Within 
or  without,  she  was  nowhere  to  be  seen ;  and,  at  length, 
in  his  despair  he  resolved  to  address  himself  to  his 
Hostess. 

*  Who  were  my  nearest  neighbours  in  that  turret  ? ' 

'  The  Marchioness  de  *  *  *  *  and  her  two  daughters, 
the  Ladies  Clara  and  Violetta ;  the  youngest  beautiful  as 
the  day ! ' 

*  And  where  are  they  now  ? ' 

*  They  are  gone ;  but  we  cannot  say  whither.     They 
set  out  soon  after  sun-rise.' 

At  a  late  hour  they  had  left  the  pavilion,  and  had 
retired  to  their  toilet-chamber,  a  chamber  of  oak  richly 
carved,  that  had  once  been  an  oratory,  and  afterwards, 
what  was  no  less  essential  to  a  house  of  that  antiquity,  a 
place  of  resort  for  two  or  three  ghosts  of  the  family. 
But,  having  long  lost  its  sanctity,  it  had  now  lost  its 
terrors ;  and,  gloomy  as  its  aspect  was,  Violetta  was  soon 


320  ITALY. 

sitting  there  alone.  '  Go,'  said  she  to  her  sister,  when 
her  mother  withdrew  for  the  night,  and  her  sister  was 
preparing  to  follow,  '  Go,  Clara.  I  will  not  be  long ' — • 
and  down  she  sat  to  a  chapter  of  the  Promessi  Sposi.* 

But  she  might  well' forget  her  promise,  forgetting  where 
she  was.  She  was  now  under  the  wand  of  an  enchanter, 
and  she  read  and  read  till  the  clock  struck  three,  and 
the  taper  flickered  in  the  socket.  She  started  up  as  from 
a  trance ;  she  threw  off  her  wreath  of  roses ;  she  gathered 
her  tresses  into  a  net ;  and  snatching  a  last  look  in  the 
mirror,  her  eyelids  heavy  with  sleep, -and  the  light 
glimmering  and  dying,  she  opened  a  wrong  door,  a  door 
that  had  been  left  unlocked ;  and,  stealing  along  on  tip- 
toe, (how  often  may  Innocence  wear  the  semblance  of 
Guilt!)  she  lay  down  as  by  her  sleeping  sister;  and 
instantly,  almost  before  the  pillow  on  which  she  reclined 
her  head  had  done  sinking,  her  sleep  was  as  the  sleep  of 
childhood. 

When  morning  came,  a  murmur  strange  to  her  ear 
alarmed  her. — What  could  it  be  ?  — Where  was  she  ?  — 
She  looked  not ;  she  listened  not ;  but  like  a  fawn  from 
the  covert,  up  she  sprung  and  was  gone. 

It  was  she  then  that  he  sought ;  it  was  she  who,  so 
unconsciously,  had  taught  him  to  love;  and,  night  and 
day,  he  pursued  her,  till  in  the  Cathedral  of  Perugia  he 
discovered  her  at  a  solemn  service,  as  she  knelt  between 
her  mother  and  her  sister  among  the  rich  and  the  poor. 

From  that  hour  did  he  endeavour  to  win  her  regard  by 
every  attention,  every  assiduity  that  Love  could  dictate ; 
nor  did  he  cease  till  he  had  won  it  and  till  she  had 

*  A  Milanese  story  of  the  xviith  century,  by  Alessandro  Manzoni. 


ITALY.  321 

consented  to  be  his  ;  but  never  did  the  secret  escape  from 
his  lips ;  nor  was  it  till  some  years  afterwards  that  he 
said  to  her,  on  an  anniversary  of  their  nuptials, '  Violetta, 
it  was  a  joyful  day  to  me,  a  day  from  which  I  date  the 
happiness  of  my  life;  but,  if  marriages  are  written  in 
heaven,'  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  restored  to  her  arm  the 
bracelet  which  he  had  treasured  up  so  long,  '  how  strange 
are  the  circumstances  by  which  they  are  sometimes 
brought  about !  for,  if  You  had  not  lost  yourself,  Violetta, 
I  might  never  have  found  you.' 


ROME. 

I  AM  in  ROME!     Oft  as  the  morning-ray 

Visits  these  eyes,  waking  at  once  I  cry, 

Whence  this  excess  of  joy  ?     What  has  befallen  me  ? 

And  from  within  a  thrilling  voice  replies, 

Thou  art  in  ROME  !     A  thousand  busy  thoughts 

Rush  on  my  mind,  a  thousand  images ; 

And  I  spring  up  as  girt  to  run  a  race ! 

Thou  art  in  ROME  !  the  City  that  so  long 
Reigned  absolute,  the  mistress  of  the  world; 
The  mighty  vision  that  the  prophets  saw, 
And  trembled;  that  from  nothing,  from  the  least, 
The  lowliest  village  (What  but  here  and  there 
A  reed-roofed  cabin  by  the  river-side  ?) 
Grew  into  everything ;  and,  year  by  year, 
Patiently,  fearlessly,  working  her  way 
O'er  brook  and  field,  o'er  continent  and  sea, 
Not  like  the  merchant  with  his  merchandise, 
Or  traveller  with  staff  and  scrip  exploring, 

2Q 


322 


ITALY. 


But  always  hand  to  hand  and  foot  to  foot, 
Through  nations  numberless  in  battle-array, 
Each  behind  each,  each,  when  the  other  fell, 
Up  and  in  arms,  at  length  subdued  them  All. 

Thou  art  in  ROME  !  the  City,  where  the  Gauls, 
Entering  at  sun-rise  through  her  open  gates, 
And,  through  her  streets  silent  and  desolate, 
Marching  to  slay,  thought  they  saw  Gods,  not  men ; 
The  City,  that,  by  temperance,  fortitude, 
And  love  of  glory,  towered  above  the  clouds, 
Then  fell — but,  falling,  kept  the  highest  seat, 
And  in  her  loneliness,  her  pomp  of  woe, 
Where  now  she  dwells,  withdrawn  into  the  wild, 
Still  o'er  the  mind  maintains,  from  age  to  age, 

Her  empire  undiminished. There,  as  though 

Grandeur  attracted  Grandeur,  are  beheld 

All  things  that  strike,  ennoble  —  from  the  depths 

Of  EGYPT,  from  the  classic  fields  of  GREECE, 

Her  groves,  her  temples  —  all  things  that  inspire 

Wonder,  delight !     Who  would  not  say  the  Forms 

Most  perfect,  most  divine,  had  by  consent 

Flocked  thither  to  abide  eternally, 

Within  those  silent  chambers  where  they  dwell, 

In  happy  intercourse? 

And  I  am  there ! 

Ah,  little  thought  I,  when  in  school  I  sate, 
A  school-boy  on  his  bench,  at  early  dawn 
Glowing  with  Roman  story,  I  should  live 
To  tread  the  APPIAN,  once  an  avenue 
Of  monuments  most  glorious,  palaces, 
Their  doors  sealed  up  and  silent  as  the  night, 
The  dwellings  of  the  illustrious  dead  —  to  turn 


ITALY.  323 

Toward  TIBUR,  and,  beyond  the  City-gate 
Pour  out  my  unpremeditated  verse, 
Where  on  his  mule  I  might  have  met  so  oft 
HORACE  himself — or  climb  the  PALATINE, 
Dreaming  of  old  EVANDER  and  his  guest, 
Dreaming  and  lost  on  that  proud  eminence, 
Long  while  the  seat  of  ROME,  hereafter  found 
Less  than  enough  (so  monstrous  was  the  brood 
Engendered  there,  so  Titan-like)  to  lodge 
One  in  his  madness;*  and  inscribed  my  name, 
My  name  and  date,  on  some  broad  aloe-leaf, 
That  shoots  and  spreads  within  those  very  walls 
Where  VIRGIL  read  aloud  his  tale  divine, 
Where  his  voice  faltered  and  a  mother  wept 
Tears  of  delight ! 

But  what  the  narrow  space 
Just  underneath?     In  many  a  heap  the  ground 
Heaves,  as  if  Ruin  in  a  frantic  mood 
Had  done  his  utmost.     Here  and  there  appears, 
As  left  to  show  his  handy-work  not  ours, 
An  idle  column,  a  half-buried  arch, 

A  wall  of  some  great  temple. It  was  once, 

And  long,  the  centre  of  their  Universe, 

The  FORUM  —  whence  a  mandate,  eagle-winged, 

Went  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.     Let  us  descend 

Slowly.     At  every  step  much  may  be  lost. 

The  very  dust  we  tread  stirs  as  with  life; 

And  not  a  breath  but  from  the  ground  sends  up 

Something  of  human  grandeur. 

We  are  come, 
Are  now  where  once  the  mightiest  spirits  met 

*  NEBO. 


324  ITALY. 

In  terrible  conflict;  this,  -while  ROME  was  free, 
The  noblest  theatre  on  this  side  Heaven ! 

Here  the  first  BRUTUS  stood,  when  o'er  the  corse 

Of  her  so  chaste  all  mourned,  and  from  his  cloud 

Burst  like  a  God.     Here,  holding  up  the  knife 

That  ran  with  blood,  the  blood  of  his  own  child, 

VIRGINIUS  called  down  vengeance. — But  whence  spoke 

They  who  harangued  the  people ;  turning  now 

To  the  twelve  tables,  now  with  lifted  hands 

To  the  Capitoline  Jove,  whose  fulgent  shape 

In  the  unclouded  azure  shone  far  off, 

And  to  the  shepherd  on  the  Alban  mount, 

Seemed  like  a  star  new-risen?     Where  were  ranged 

In  rough  array  as  on  their  element, 

The  beaks  of  those  old  galleys  destined  still* 

To  brave  the  brunt  of  war  —  at  last  to  know 

A  calm  far  worse,  a  silence  as  in  death? 

All  spiritless ;  from  that  disastrous  hour 

When  he,  the  bravest,  gentlest  of  them  all,f 

Scorning  the  chains  he  could  not  hope  to  break, 

Fell  on  his  sword! 

Along  the  Sacred  Way 

Hither  the  Triumph  came,  and,  winding  round 
With  acclamation,  and  the  martial  clang 
Of  instruments,  and  cars  laden  with  spoil, 
Stopped  at  the  sacred  stair  that  then  appeared ; 
Then  thro'  the  darkness  broke,  ample,  star-bright, 
As  tho'  it  led  to  heaven.     'Twas  night;  but  now 
A  thousand  torches,  turning  night  to  day, 
Blazed,  and  the  victor,  springing  from  his  seat, 

*  The  Rostra.  f  MAKCCS  JUNIUS  BRCTUS. 


ITALY.  325 

Went  up,  and  kneeling  as  in  fervent  prayer, 

Entered  the  Capitol.     But  what  are  they 

Who  at  the  foot  withdraw,  a  mournful  train 

In  fetters?     And  who,  yet  incredulous, 

Now  gazing  wildly  round,  now  on  his  sons, 

On  those  so  young,  well-pleased  with  all  they  see, 

Staggers  along,  the  last? — They  are  the  fallen, 

Those  who  were  spared  to  grace  the  chariot-wheels ; 

And  there  they  parted,  where  the  road  divides, 

The  victor  and  the  vanquished  —  there  withdrew; 

He  to  the  festal  board,  and  they  to  die. 

Well  might  the  great,  the  mighty  of  the  world, 
They  who  were  wont  to  fare  deliciously, 
And  war  but  for  a  kingdom  more  or  less, 
Shrink  back,  nor  from  their  thrones  endure  to  look, 
To  think  that  way!     Well  might  they  in  their  state 
Humble  themselves,  and  kneel  and  supplicate 
To  be  delivered  from  a  dream  like  this ! 

Here  CINCINNATUS  passed,  his  plough  the  while 
Left  in  the  furrow;  and  how  many  more, 
Whose  laurels  fade  not,  who  still  walk  the  earth, 
Consuls,  Dictators,  still  in  Curule  pomp 
Sit  and  decide ;  and,  as  of  old  in  ROME, 
Name  but  their  names,  set  every  heart  on  fire  ! 

Here,  in  his  bonds,  he  whom  the  phalanx  saved  not,* 
The  last  on  PHILIP'S  throne;  and  the  Numidian,f 
So  soon  to  say,  stript  of  his  cumbrous  robe, 
Stripped  to  the  skin,  and  in  his  nakedness 
Thrust  under-ground,  '  How  cold  this  bath  of  yours ! ' ' 
And  thy  proud  queen,  PALMYKA,  thro'  the  sands  J 

*  PERSEUS.  f  JUGURTUA.  J  ZENOBIA. 

28 


326  ITALY. 

Pursued,  o'ertaken  on  her  dromedary; 
Whose  temples,  palaces,  a  wondrous  dream 
That  passes  not  away,  for  many  a  league 
Illumine  yet  the  desert.     Some  invoked 
Death,  and  escaped;  the  Egyptian,  when  her  asp 
Came  from  his  covert  under  the  green  leaf;* 
And  HANNIBAL  himself;  and  she  who  said, 
Taking  the  fatal  cup  between  her  hands,f 
'  Tell  him  I  would  it  had  come  yesterday ; 
For  then  it  had  not  been  his  nuptial  gift.' 

Now  all  is  changed;  and  here,  as. in  the  wild, 
The  day  is  silent,  dreary  as  the  night ; 
None  stirring,  save  the  herdsman  and  his  herd, 
Savage-like;  or  they  that  would  explore, 
Discuss  and  learnedly;  or  they  that  come, 
(And  there  are  many  who  have  crossed  the  earth) 
That  they  may  give  the  hours  to  meditation, 
And  wander,  often  saying  to  themselves, 
'  This  was  the  ROMAN  FOKUM  ! ' 


A  FUNERAL. 

'WHENCE  this  delay?'     "Along  the  crowded  street 
A  Funeral  comes,  and  with  unusual  pomp." 
So  I  withdrew  a  little,  and  stood  still, 
While  it  went  by.     '  She  died  as  she  deserved,' 
Said  an  Abate,  gathering  up  his  cloak, 
And  with  a  shrug  retreating  as  the  tide 

*  CLEOPATEA.  SOPHONISBA. 


ITALY.  327 

Flowed  more  and  more. — 'But  she  was  beautiful!' 

Replied  a  soldier  of  the  Pontiffs  guard. 

'  And  innocent  as  beautiful ! '  exclaimed 

A  Matron  sitting  in  her  stall,  hung  round 

With  garlands,  holy  pictures,  and  what  not? 

Her  Alban  grapes  and  Tusculan  figs  displayed 

In  rich  profusion.     From  her  heart  she  spoke ; 

And  I  accosted  her  to  hear  her  story. 

'The  stab,'  she  cried,  'was  given  in  jealousy; 

But  never  fled  a  purer  spirit  to  heaven, 

As  thou  wilt  say,  or  much  my  mind  misleads, 

When  thou  hast  seen  her  face.     Last  night  at  dusk, 

When  on  her  way  from  vespers  —  None  were  near, 

None  save  her  serving-boy,  who  knelt  and  wept, 

But  what  could  tears  avail  him,  when  she  fell  — 

Last  night  at  dusk,  the  clock  then  striking  nine, 

Just  by  the  fountain  —  that  before  the  church, 

The  church  she  always  used,  St.  Isidore's  — 

Alas,  I  knew  her  from  her  earliest  youth, 

That  excellent  lady.     Ever  would  she  say, 

Good  even,  as  she  passed,  and  with  a  voice 

Gentle  as  theirs  in  heaven!' — But  now  by  fits 

A  dull  and  dismal  noise  assailed  the  ear, 

A  wail,  a  chant,  louder  and  louder  yet; 

And  now  a  strange  fantastic  troop  appeared ! 

Thronging,  they  came  —  as  from  the  shades  below ; 

All  of  a  ghostly  white !     '  Oh  say,'  I  cried, 

'  Do  not  the  living  here  bury  the  dead  ? 

Do  Spirits  come  and  fetch  them  ?     What  are  these, 

That  seem  not  of  this  World,  and  mock  the  Day; 

Each  with  a  burning  taper  in  his  hand  ? ' — 

'It  is  an  ancient  Brotherhood  thou  seest. 


328  ITALY. 

Such  their  apparel.     Through  the  long,  long  line, 
Look  where  thou  wilt,  no  likeness  of  a  man ; 
The  living  masked,  the  dead  alone  uncovered. 
But  mark' — And,  lying  on  her  funeral  couch, 
Like  one  asleep,  her  eyelids  closed,  her  hands 
Folded  together  on  her  modest  breast, 
As  'twere  her  nightly  posture,  through  the  crowd 
She  came  at  last  —  and  richly,  gaily  clad, 
As  for  a  birth-day  feast !     But  breathes  she  not  ? 
A  glow  is  on  her  cheek  —  and  her  lips  move ! 
And  now  a  smile  is  there  —  how  heavenly  sweet ! 
'  Oh  no ! '  replied  the  Dame,  wiping  her  tears, 
But  with  an  accent  less  of  grief  than  anger, 
'  No,  she  will  never,  never  wake  again ! ' 

Death,  when  we  meet  the  Spectre  in  our  walks, 
As  we  did  yesterday  and  shall  to-morrow, 
Soon  grows  familiar  —  like  most  other  things, 
Seen,  not  observed;  but  in  a  foreign  clime, 
Changing  his  shape  to  something  new  and  strange, 
(And  through  the  world  he  changes  as  in  sport, 
Affect  he  greatness  or  humility) 
Knocks  at  the  heart.     His  form  and  fashion  here 
To  me,  I  do  confess,  reflect  a  gloom,- 
A  sadness  .round ;  yet  one  I  would  not  lose ; 
Being  in  unison  with  all  things  else 
In  this,  this  land  of  shadows,  where  we  live 
More  in  past  time  than  present,  where  the  ground, 
League  beyond  league,  like  one  great  cemetery, 
Is  covered  o'er  with  mouldering  monuments ; 
And,  let  the  living  wander  where  they  will, 
They  cannot  leave  the  footsteps  of  the  dead. 

Oft,  where  the  burial  rite  follows  so  fast 


ITALY.  329 

The  agony,  oft  coming,  nor  from  far, 

Must  a  fond  father  meet  his  darling  child, 

(Him  who  at  parting  climbed  his  knees  and  clung) 

Clay-cold  and  wan,  and  to  the  bearers  cry, 

1  Stand,  I  conjure  ye ! ' 

Seen  thus  destitute, 

What  are  the  greatest?     They  must  speak  beyond 
A  thousand  homilies.     When  RAPHAEL  went, 
His  heavenly  face  the  mirror  of  his  mind, 
His  mind  a  temple  for  all  lovely  things 
To  flock  to  and  inhabit  —  when  He  went, 
Wrapt  in  his  sable  cloak,  the  cloak  he  wore, 
To  sleep  beneath  the  venerable  Dome,* 
By  those  attended,  who  in  life  had  loved, 
Had  worshipped,  following  in  his  steps  to  Fame, 
('Twas  on  an  April-day,  when  Nature  smiles) 
All  Rome  was  there.     But,  ere  the  march  began, 
Ere  to  receive  their  charge  the  bearers  came, 
Who  had  not  sought  him  ?     And  when  all  beheld 
Him  where  he  lay,  changed  from  yesterday, 
Him  in  that  hour  cut  off,  and  at  his  head 
His  last  great  work ;  when,  entering  in,  they  looked 
Now  on  the  dead,  then  on  that  master-piece, 
Now  on  his  face,  lifeless  and  colourless, 
Then  on  those  forms  divine  that  lived  and  breathed, 
And  would  live  on  for  ages  —  all  were  moved; 
And  sighs  burst  forth,  and  loudest  lamentations. 

*  The  Pantheon. 
28*  2R 


330  ITALY. 


NATIONAL  PREJUDICES. 

4 ANOTHER  Assassination!  This  venerable  City,'  I  ex- 
claimed, 'what  is  it,  but  as  it  began,  a  nest  of  robbers 
and  murderers?  We  must  away  at  sunrise,  Luigi.' — 
But  before  sunrise  I  had  reflected  a  little,  and  in  the 
soberest  prose.  My  indignation  was  gone;  and  when 
Luigi  undrew  my  curtain,  crying,  '  Up,  Signer,  up  !  The 
horses  are  at  the  gate.'  'Luigi,'  I  replied,  'if  thou 
lovest  me,  draw  the  curtain.'  * 

It  would  lessen  very  much  the  severity  with  which  men 
judge  of  each  other,  if  they  would  but  trace  effects  to 
their  causes,  and  observe  the  progress  of  things  in  the 
moral  as  accurately  as  in  the  physical  world.  When  we 
condemn  millions  in  the  mass  as  vindictive  and  sanguinary, 
we  should  remember  that,  wherever  Justice  is  ill-adminis- 
tered, the  injured  will  redress  themselves.  Robbery 
provokes  to  robbery ;  murder  to  assassination.  Resent- 
ments become  hereditary ;  and  what  began  in  disorder, 
ends  as  if  all  hell  had  broke  loose. 

Laws  create  a  habit  of  self-restraint,  not  only  by  the 
influence  of  fear,  but  by  regulating  in  its  exercise  the 
passion  of  revenge.  If  they  overawe  the  bad  by  the 
prospect  of  a  punishment  certain  and  well-defined,  they 
console  the  injured  by  the  infliction  of  that  punishment ; 
and,  as  the  infliction  is  a  public  act,  it  excites  and  entails 
no  enmity.  The  laws  are  offended;  and  the  community 

*  A  dialogue,  which  is  said  to  have  passed  many  years  ago  at  Lyons 
(M6m.  de  Grammont,  I.  3.)  and  which  may  still  be  heard  in  almost 
every  hotellerie  at  day-break. 


ITALY.  331 

for  its  own  sake  pursues  and  overtakes  the  offender ;  often 
without  the  concurrence  of  the  sufferer,  sometimes  against 
his  wishes. 

Now  those  who  were  not  born,  like  ourselves,  to  such 
advantages,  we  should  surely  rather  pity  than  hate ;  and, 
when  at  length  they  venture  to  turn  against  their  rulers,* 
we  should  lament,  not  wonder  at  their  excesses ;  remem- 
bering that  nations  are  naturally  patient  and  long  suffer- 
ing, and  seldom  rise  in  rebellion  till  they  are  so  degraded 
by  a  bad  government  as  to  be  almost  incapable  of  a  good 
one. 

'Hate  them,  perhaps,'  you  may  say,  'we  should  not; 
but  despise  them  we  must,  if  enslaved,  like  the  people  of 
ROME,  in  mind  as  well  as  body;  if  their  religion  be  a 
gross  and  barbarous  superstition.' — I  respect  knowledge; 
but  I  do  not  despise  ignorance.  They  think  only  as  their 
fathers  thought,  worship  as  they  worshipped.  They  do 
no  more ;  and,  if  ours  had  not  burst  their  bondage,  brav- 
ing imprisonment  and  death,  might  not  we  at  this  very 
moment  have  been  exhibiting,  in  our  streets  and  our 
churches,  the  same  processions,  ceremonials,  and  mortifi- 
cations ? 

Nor  should  we  require  from  those  who  are  in  an  earlier 
stage  of  society,  what  belongs  to  a  later.  They  are  only 
where  we  once  were ;  and  why  hold  them  in  derision  ? 

*  As  the  descendants  of  an  illustrious  people  have  lately  done.  Can 
it  be  believed  that  there  are  many  among  us,  who,  from  a  desire  to  be 
thought  superior  to  common-place  sentiments  and  vulgar  feelings,  affect 
an  indifference  to  their  cause  ?  '  If  the  Greeks,'  they  say,  '  had  the 
probity  of  other  nations  — but  they  are  false  to  a  proverb ! '  And  is  not 
falsehood  the  characteristic  of  slaves  ?  Man  is  the  creature  of  circum- 
stances. Free,  he  has  the  qualities  of  a  freeman  ;  enslaved,  those  of  a 
slave. 


332  ITALY. 

It  is  their  business  to  cultivate  the  inferior  arts  before 
they  think  of  the  more  refined ;  and  in  many  of  the  last 
what  are  we  as  a  nation,  when  compared  to  others  that 
have  passed  away?  Unfortunately  it  is  too  much  the 
practice  of  governments  to  nurse  and  keep  alive  in  the 
governed  their  national  prejudices.  It  withdraws  their 
attention  from  what  is  passing  at  home,  and  makes  them 
better  tools  in  the  hands  of  Ambition.  Hence  next-door 
neighbours  are  held  up  to  us  from  our  childhood  as  natural 
enemies;  and  we  are  urged  on  like  curs  to  worry  each 
other.* 

In  like  manner  we  should  learn  to  be  just  to  individuals. 
Who  can  say,  'In  such  circumstances  I  should  have 
done  otherwise  ? '  Who,  did  he  but  reflect  by  what 
slow  gradations,  often  by  how  many  sti'ange  concurrences, 
we  are  led  astray ;  with  how  much  reluctance,  how  much 
agony,  how  many  efforts  to  escape,  how  many  self- 
accusations,  how  many  sighs,  how  many  tears. —  Who, 
did  he  but  reflect  for  a  moment,  would  have  the  heart 
to  cast  a  stone?  Fortunately  these  things  are  known 
to  Him,  from  whom  no  secrets  are  hidden ;  and  let  us 
rest  in  the  assurance  that  His  judgmeats  are  not  as  ours 
are. 

*  Candour,  generosity,  how  rare  are  they  in  the  world ;  and  how 
much  is  to  be  deplored  the  want  of  them !  When  a  minister  in  our 
parliament  consents  at  last  to  a  measure,  which,  for  many  reasons  per- 
haps existing  no  longer,  he  had  before  refused  to  adopt,  there  should 
be  no  exultation  as  over  the  fallen,  no  taunt,  no  jeer.  How  often  may 
the  resistance  be  continued  lest  an  enemy  should  triumph,  and  the 
result  of  conviction  be  received  as  the  symptom  of  fear ! 


ITALY.  333 


THE  CAMPAGNA  OF  HOME. 

HAVE  none  appeared  as  tillers  of  the  ground, 
None  since  They  went  —  as  though  it  still  were  theirs, 
And  they  might  come  and  claim  their  own  again? 
Was  the  last  plough  a  Roman's? 

From  this  Seat,* 

Sacred  for  ages,  whence,  as  VIRGIL  sings, 
The  Queen  of  Heaven,  alighting  from  the  sky, 
Looked  down  and  saw  the  armies  in  array,  f 
Let  us  contemplate ;  and,  where  dreams  from  Jove 
Descended  on  the  sleeper,  where  perchance 
Some  inspirations  may  be  lingering  still, 
Some  glimmerings  of  the  future  and  the  past, 
Let  us  await  their  influence;  silently 
Revolving,  as  we  rest  on  the  green  turf, 
The  changes  from  that  hour,  when  he  from  TROY 
Came  up  the  TIBUR;  when  refulgent  shields, 
No  strangers  to  the  iron-hail  of  war, 
Streamed  far  and  wide,  and  dashing  oars  were  heard 
Among  those  woods  where  Silvia's  stag  was  lying, 
His  antlers  gay  with  flowers;  among  those  woods 
Where,  by  the  Moon,  that  saw  and  yet  withdrew  not, 
Two  were  soon  to  wander  and  be  slain, 
Two  lovely  in  their  lives,  nor  in  their  death 
Divided. 

Then,  and  hence  to  be  discerned, 
How  many  realms,  pastoral  and  warlike,  lay 

*  See  Note.  f  ^neid,  xii.  134. 


334  ITALY. 

Along  this  plain,  each  with  its  schemes  of  power, 

Its  little  rivalships !     What  various  turns 

Of  fortune  there;  what  moving  accidents 

From  ambuscade  and  open  violence ! 

Mingling,  the  sounds  came  up ;  and  hence  how  oft 

We  might  have  caught  among  the  trees  below, 

Glittering  with  helm  and  shield,  the  men  of  TIBUR;* 

Or  in  Greek  vesture,  Greek  their  origin, 

Some  embassy,  ascending  to  Pfi.&NESTEjf 

How  oft  descried,  without  thy  gates,  ARICIA,| 

Entering  the  solemn  grove  for  sacrifice, 

Senate  and  people!  —  Each  a  busy  hive, 

Glowing  with  life ! 

But  all  ere  long  are  lost 
In  one.     We  look,  and  where  the  river  rolls 
Southward  its  shining  labyrinth,  in  her  strength 
A  City,  girt  with  battlements  and  towers, 
On  seven  small  hills  is  rising.     Round  about, 
At  rural  work,  the  Citizens  are  seen, 
None  unemployed;  the  noblest  of  them  all 
Binding  their  sheaves  or  on  their  threshing-floors, 
As  though  they  had  not  conquered.     Every  where 
Some  trace  of  valour  or  heroic  toil! 
Here  is  the  sacred  field  of  the  HORATII. 
There  are  the  QUINTIAN  meadows.     Here  the  Hill§ 
"How  holy,  where  a  generous  people,  twice, 
Twice  going  forth,  in  terrible  anger  sate 
Armed ;  and,  their  wrongs  redressed,  at  once  gave  way, 
Helmet  and  shield,  and  sword  and  spear  thrown  down, 

*  Tivoli.  I  Palestrina. 

|  La  Riccia.  Mons  Sacer. 


ITALY.  335 

And  every  hand  uplifted,  every  heart 
Poured  out  in  thanks  to  Heaven. 

Once  again 

We  look ;  and  lo,  the  sea  is  white  with  sails 
Innumerable,  wafting  to  the  shore 
Treasures  untold;  the  vale,  the  promontories, 
A  dream  of  glory;  temples,  palaces, 
Called  up  as  by  enchantment;  aqueducts 
Among  the  groves  and  glades  rolling  along 
Rivers,  on  many  an  arch  high  over-head; 
And  in  the  centre,  like  a  burning  sun, 
The  Imperial  City !     They  have  now  subdued 
All  nations.     But  where  they  who  led  them  forth ; 
Who,  when  at  length  released  by  victory, 
(Buckler  and  spear  hung  up  —  but  not  to  rust) 
Held  poverty  no  evil,  no  reproach, 
Living  on  little  with  a  cheerful  mind, 
The  DECII,  the  FABRICII?     Where  the  spade, 
And  reaping-hook,  among  their  household-things 
Duly  transmitted?     In  the  hands  of  men 
Made  captive;  while  the  master  and  his  guests, 
Reclining,  quaff  in  gold,  and  roses  swim, 
Summer  and  winter,  through  the  circling  year, 
On  their  Falerian  —  in  the  hands  of  men 
Dragged  into  slavery,  with  how  many  more 
Spared  but  to  die,  a  public  spectacle, 
In  combat  with  each  other,  and  required 
To  fall  with  grace,  with  dignity  —  to  sink, 
While  life  is  gushing,  and  the  plaudits  ring 
Faint  and  yet  fainter  on  their  failing  ear, 
As  models  for  the  sculptor. 


336  ITALY. 

But  their  days, 

Their  hours  are  numbered.     Hark,  a  yell,  a  shriek, 
A  barbarous  out-cry,  loud  and  louder  yet, 
That  echoes  from  the  mountains  to  the  sea! 
And  mark,  beneath  us,  like  a  bursting  cloud, 
The  battle  moving  onward!     Had  they  slain 
All,  that  the  Earth  should  from  her  womb  bring  forth 
New  nations  to  destroy  them?     From  the  depth 
Of  forests,  from  what  none  had  dared  explore, 
Regions  of  thrilling  ice,  as  though  in  ice 
Engendered,  multiplied,  they  pour  along, 
Shaggy  and  huge !     Host  after  host,  they  come ; 
The  Goth,  the  Vandal;  and  again  the  Goth! 

Once  more  we  look,  and  all  is  still  as  night, 
All  desolate !     Groves,  temples,  palaces, 
Swept  from  the  sight :  and  nothing  visible, 
Amid  the  sulphurous  vapours  that  exhale 
As  from  a  land  accurst,  save  here  and  there 
An  empty  tomb,  a  fragment  like  the  limb 
Of  some  dismembered  giant.     In  the  midst 
A  City  stands,  her  domes  and  turrets  crowned 
With  many  a  cross;  but  they,  that  issue  forth, 
Wander  like  strangers  that  had  built  among 
The  mighty  ruins,  silent,  spiritless ; 
And  on  the  road,  where  once  we  might  have  met 
C^ISAR  and  CATO,  and  men  more  than  kings, 
We  meet,  nono  else,  the  pilgrim  and  the  beggar. 


ITALY.  3.37 


THE  ROMAN  PONTIFFS. 

THOSE  ancient  men,  what  were  they,  who  achieved 
A  sway  beyond  the  greatest  conquerors ; 
Setting  their  feet  upon  the  necks  of  kings, 
And,  through  the  world,  subduing,  chaining  down 
The  free,  immortal  spirit?     Were  they  not 
Mighty  magicians?     Theirs  a  wondrous  spell, 
Where  true  and  false  were  with  infernal  art 
Close-interwoven;  where  together  met 
Blessings  and  curses,  threats  and  promises ; 
And  with  the  terrors  of  Futurity 
Mingled  whate'er  enchants  and  fascinates, 
Music  and  painting,  sculpture,  rhetoric, 
And  dazzling  light  and  darkness  visible, 
And  architectural  pomp,  such  as  none  else ! 
What  in  his  day  the  SYRACUSAN  sought, 
Another  world  to  plant  his  engines  on, 
They  had;  and,  having  it,  like  gods  not  men 
Moved  this  world  at  their  pleasure.     Ere  they  came, 
Their  shadows,  stretching  far  and  wide,  were  known ; 
And  Two,  that  looked  beyond  the  visible  sphere, 
Gave  notice  of  their  coming  —  he  who  saw 
The  Apocalypse ;  and  he  of  elder  time, 
Who  in  an  awful  vision  of  the  night 
Saw  the  Four  Kingdoms.     Distant  as  they  were, 
Those  holy  men,  well  might  they  faint  with  fear ! 
29  2s 


338  ITALY. 


CAIUS  CESTIUS. 

WHEN  I  am  inclined  to  be  serious,  I  love  to  wander  up 
and  down  before  the  tomb  of  CAIUS  CESTIUS.  The 
Protestant  burial-ground  is  there  ;  and  most  of  the  little 
monuments  are  erected  to  the  young :  young  men  of 
promise,  cut  off  when  on  their  travels,  full  of  enthusiasm, 
full  of  enjoyment ;  brides,  in  the  bloom  of  their  beauty, 
on  their  first  journey ;  or  children  borne  from  home  in 
search  of  health.  This  stone  was  placed  by  his  fellow- 
travellers,  young  as  himself,  who  will  return  to  the 
house  of  his  parents  without  him  !  that,  by  a  husband 
or  a  father,  now  in  his  native  country.  His  heart  is 
buried  in  that  grave. 

It  is  a  quiet  and  sheltered  nook,  covered  in  the  winter 
with  violets;  and  the  Pyramid,  that  overshadows  it, 
gives  it  a  classical  and  singularly  solemn  air.  You  feel 
an  interest  there,  a  sympathy  you  were  not  prepared 
for.  You  are  yourself  in  a  foreign  land ;  and  they  are 
for  the  most  part  your  countrymen.  They  call  upon 
you  in  your  mother-tongue  —  in  English  —  in  words 
unknown  to  a  native,  known  only  to  yourselves:  and 
the  tomb  of  CESTIUS,  that  old  majestic  pile,  has  this 
also  in  common  with  them.  It  is  itself  a  stranger, 
among  strangers.  It  has  stood  there  till  the  language 
spoken  round  about  it  has  changed ;  and  the  shepherd, 
born  at  the  foot,  can  read  its  inscription  no  longer. 


ITALY.  339 


THE  NUN. 

'Tis  over;  and  her  lovely  cheek  is  now 
On  her  hard  pillow  —  there,  alas,  to  be 
Nightly,  through  many  and  many  a  dreary  hour, 
Wan,  often  wet  with  tears,  and  (ere  at  length 
Her  place  is  empty,  and  another  comes) 
In  anguish,  in  the  ghastliness  of  death; 
Hers  never  more  to  leave  those  mournful  walls, 
Even  on  her  bier. 

'Tis  over;  and  the  rite, 
With  all  its  pomp  and  harmony,  is  now 
Floating  before  her.     She  arose  at  home, 
To  be  the  show,  the  idol  of  the  day; 
Her  vesture  gorgeous,  and  her  starry  head  — 
No  rocket,  bursting  in  the  midnight-sky, 
So  dazzling.     When  to-morrow  she  awakes, 
She  will  awake  as  though  she  still  was  there. 
Still  in  her  father's  house;  and  lo,  a  cell 
Narrow  and  dark,  nought  through  the  gloom  discerned, 
Nought  save  the  crucifix,  the  rosary, 
And  the  grey  habit  lying  by  to  shroud 
Her  beauty  and  grace. 

When  on  her  knees  she  fell, 
Entering  the  solemn  place  of  consecration, 
And  from  the  latticed  gallery  came  a  chaunt 
Of  psalms,  most  saint-like,  most  angelical, 
Verse  after  verse  sung  out,  how  holily ! 
The  strain  returning,  and  still,  still  returning, 
Methought  it  acted  like  a  spell  upon  her, 


340  ITALY. 

And  she  was  casting  off  her  earthly  dross ; 
Yet  was  it  sad  as  sweet,  and,  ere  it  closed, 
Came  like  a  dirge.     When  her  fair  head  was  shorn, 
And  the  long  tresses  in  her  hands  were  laid, 
That  she  might  fling  them  from  her,  saying,  '  Thus, 
Thus  I  renounce  the  world  and  worldly  things ! ' 
When,  as  she  stood,  her  bridal  ornaments 
Were,  one  by  one,  removed,  even  to  the  last, 
That  she  might  say,  flinging  them  from  her,   '  Thus, 
Thus  I  renounce  the  world ! '  when  all  was  changed, 
And,  as  a  nun,  in  homeliest  guise  she  knelt, 
Veiled  in  her  veil,  crowned  with  her  silver  crown, 
Her  crown  of  lilies  as  the  spouse  of  Christ, 
Well  might  her  strength  forsake  her,  and  her  knees 
Fail  in  that  hour !     Well  might  the  holy  man, 
He,  at  whose  feet  she  knelt,  give  as  by  stealth 
('Twas  in  her  utmost  need;  nor,  while  she  lives, 
Will  it  go  from  her,  fleeting  as  it  was) 
That  faint  and  fatherly  smile,  that  smile  of  love 
And  pity ! 

Like  a  dream  the  whole  is  fled; 
And  they,  that  came  in  idleness  to  gaze 
Upon  the  victim  dressed  for  sacrifice, 
Are  mingling  in  the  world;  thou  in  thy  cell 
Forgot,  TERESA.     Yet,  among  them  all, 
None  were  so  formed  to  love  and  to  be  loved, 
None  to  delight,  adorn ;  and  on  thee  now 
A  curtain,  blacker  than  the  night,  is  dropped 
For  ever !     In  thy  gentle  bosom  sleep 
Feelings,  affections,  destined  now  to  die, 
To  wither  like  the  blossom  in  the  bud, 
Those  of  a  wife,  a  mother ;  leaving  there 


ITALY.  341 

A  cheerless  void,  a  chill  as  of  the  grave, 

A  languor  and  a  lethargy  of  soul, 

Death-like,  and  gathering  more  and  more,  till  Death 

Comes  to  release  thee.     Ah,  what  now  to  thee. 

What  now  to  thee  the  treasure  of  thy  Youth  ? 

As  nothing  ! 

But  thou  canst  not  yet  reflect 
Calmly;  so  many  things,  strange  and  perverse, 
That  meet,  recoil,  and  go  but  to  return, 
The  monstrous  birth  of  one  eventful  day, 
Troubling  thy  spirit  —  from  the  first  at  dawn, 
The  rich  arraying  for  the  nuptial  feast, 
To  the  black  pall,  the  requiem.     All  in  turn 
Revisit  thee,  and  round  thy  lowly  bed 
Hover,  uncalled.     Thy  young  and  innocent  heart, 
How  is  it  beating  ?     Has  it  no  regrets  ? 
Discoverest  thou  no  weakness  lurking  there? 
But  thine  exhausted  frame  has  sunk  to  rest. 
Peace  to  thy  slumbers ! 


THE  FIRE-FLY. 

THERE  is  an  Insect,  that,  when  Evening  comes, 
Small  though  he  be,  scarcely  distinguishable, 
Like  Evening  clad  in  soberest  livery, 
Unsheaths  his  wings  and  thro'  the  woods  and  glades 
Scatters  a  marvellous  splendour.     On  he  wheels, 
Blazing  by  fits  as  from  excess  of  joy, 
Each  gush  of  light  a  gush  of  ecstasy; 
Nor  unaccompanied;  thousands  that  fling 
A  radiance  all  their  own,  not  of  the  day, 
29* 


342  ITALY. 

Thousands  as  bright  as  he,  from  dusk  till  dawn, 
Soaring,  descending. 

In  the  mother's  lap 

Well  may  the  child  put  forth  his  little  hands, 
Singing  the  nursery-song  he  learnt  so  soon; 
And  the  young  nymph,  preparing  for  the  dance 
By  brook  or  fountain-side,  in  many  a  braid 
Wreathing  her  golden  hair,  well  may  she  cry, 
'  Come  hither ;  and  the  shepherds,  gathering  round, 
Shall  say,  Floretta  emulates  the  Night, 
Spangling  her  head  with  stars.' 

Oft  have  I  met 

This  shining  race,  when  in  the  TUSCULAN  groves 
My  path  no  longer  glimmered;  oft  among 
Those  trees,  religious  once  and  always  green, 
That  yet  dream  out  their  stories  of  old  ROME 
Over  the  ALBAN  lake;  oft  met  and  hailed, 
Where  the  precipitate  ANIO  thunders  down, 
•And  through  the  surging  mist  a  Poet's  house 
(So  some  aver,  and  who  would  not  believe?) 

Reveals  itself. Yet  cannot  I  forget 

Him,  who  rejoiced  me  in  those  walks  at  eve,* 
My  earliest,  pleasantest ;  who  dwells  unseen, 
And  in  our  northern  clime,  when  all  is  still, 
Nightly  keeps  watch,  nightly  in  bush  or  brake 
His  lonely  lamp  rekindling.     Unlike  theirs, 
His,  if  less  dazzling,  through  the  darkness  knows 
No  intermission;  sending  forth  its  ray 
Through  the  green  leaves,  a  ray  serene  and  clear 
As  Virtue's  own. 

*  The  glow-worm. 


ITALY.  343 


FOREIGN  TRAVEL. 

IT  was  in  a  splenetic  humour  that  I  sat  me  down  to  my 
scanty  fare  at  TERRACINA  ;  and  how  long  I  should  have 
contemplated  the  lean  thrushes  in  array  before  me,  I 
cannot  say,  if  a  cloud  of  smoke,  that  drew  the  tears 
into  my  eyes,  had  not  burst  from  the  green  and  leafy 
boughs  on  the  hearth-stone.  '  Why,'  I  exclaimed, 
starting  up  from  the  table,  'why  did  I  leave  my  own 
chimney-corner  ?  —  But  am  I  not  on  the  road  to  BRUN- 
DUSIUM  ?  And  are  not  these  the  very  calamities  that 
befel  HORACE  and  VIRGIL,  and  MAECENAS,  and  PLOTIUS, 
and  VARIUS?  HORACE  laughed  at  them  —  Then  why 
should  not  I  ?  HORACE  resolved  to  turn  them  to  ac- 
count; and  VIRGIL  —  cannot  we  hear  him  observing, 
that  to  remember  them  will,  by  and  by,  be  a  pleasure  ?' 
My  soliloquy  reconciled  me  at  once  to  my  fate ;  and 
when  for  the  twentieth  time  I  had  looked  through  the 
window  on  a  sea  sparkling  with  innumerable  brilliants, 
a  sea  on  which  the  heroes  of  the  Odyssey  and  the 
^Eneid  had  sailed,  I  sat  down  as  to  a  splendid  banquet. 
My  thrushes  had  the  flavour  of  ortolans ;  and  I  ate  with 
an  appetite  I  had  not  known  before.  'Who,'  I  cried, 
as  I  poured  out  my  last  glass  of  Falernian,*  (for  Faler- 
nian  it  was  said  to  be,  and  in  my  eyes  it  ran  bright 
and  clear  as  a  topaz-stone)  '  Who  would  remain  at  home, 
could  he  do  otherwise  ?  Who  would  submit  to  tread 
that  dull,  but  daily  round ;  his  hours  forgotten  as  soon 

*  We  were  now  within  a  few  hours  of  the  Campania  Felix.     On  the 
colour  and  flavour  of  Falerian,  consult  Galen  and  Dioscorides. 


344  ITALY. 

as  spent  ? '  and,  opening  my  journal-book,  and  dipping 
my  pen  in  my  ink-horn,  I  determined,  as  far  as  I  could, 
to  justify  myself  and  my  countrymen  in  wandering  over 
the  face  of  the  earth.  '  It  may  serve  me,'  said  I,  '  as 
a  remedy  in  some  future  fit  of  the  spleen.' 


Ours  is  a  nation  of  travellers;*  and  no  wonder,  when 
the  elements,  air,  water,  and  fire,  attend  at  our  bidding, 
to  transport  us  from  shore  to  shore;  when  the  ship 
rushes  into  the  deep,  her  track  the  foam  as  of  some 
mighty  torrent;  and,  in  three  hours  or  less,  we  stand 
gazing  and  gazed  at  among  a  foreign  people.  None 
want  an  excuse.  If  rich,  they  go  to  enjoy ;  if  poor, 
to  retrench ;  if  sick,  to  recover ;  if  studious,  to  learn ; 
if  learned,  to  relax  from  their  studies.  But  Avhatever 
they  may  say  and  whatever  they  may  believe,  they  go 
for  the  most  part  on  the  same  errand ;  nor  will  those 
who  reflect,  think  that  errand  an  idle  one. 

Almost  all  men  are  over-anxious.  No  sooner  do  they 
enter  the  world,  than  they  lose  that  taste  for  natural 
and  simple  pleasures,  so  remarkable  in  early  life.  Every 
hour  do  they  ask  themselves  what  progress  they  have 
made  in  the  pursuit  of  wealth  or  honour ;  and  on  they 
go  as  their  fathers  went  before  them,  till  weary  and 

*  As  indeed  it  always  was,  contributing  those  of  every  degree,  from 
a  milord  with  his  suite  to  him  whose  only  attendant  is  his  shadow. 
Coryate  in  1608  performed  his  journey  on  foot ;  and,  returning,  hung 
up  his  shoes  in  his  village-church  as  an  ex-voto.  Goldsmith,  a  century 
and  a  half  afterwards,  followed  in  nearly  the  same  path  ;  playing  a  tune 
on  his  flute  to  procure  admittance,  whenever  he  approached  a  cottage 
at  night-fall. 


ITALY.  345 

sick  at  heart,  they  look  back  with  a  sigh  of  regret  to 
the  golden  time  of  their  childhood. 

Now  travel,  and  foreign  travel  more  particularly,  re- 
stores to  us  in  a  great  degree  what  we  have  lost.  When 
the  anchor  is  heaved,  we  double  down  the  leaf;  and  for 
a  while  at  least  all  effort  is  over.  The  old  cares  are 
left  clustering  round  the  old  objects ;  and  at  every  step, 
as  we  proceed,  the  slightest  circumstance  amuses  and 
interests.  All  is  new  and  strange.  We  surrender  our- 
selves, and  feel  once  again  as  children.  Like  them,  we 
enjoy  eagerly;  like  them,  when  we  fret,  we  fret  only 
for  the  moment ;  and  here  indeed  the  resemblance  is 
very  remarkable,  for,  if  a  journey  has  its  pains  as  well 
as  its  pleasures  (and  there  is  nothing  unmixed  in  this 
world)  the  pains  are  no  sooner  over  than  they  are  for- 
gotten, while  the  pleasures  live  long  in  the  memory. 

Nor  is  it  surely  without  another  advantage.  If  life  be 
short,  not  so  to  many  of  us  are  its  days  and  its  hours. 
When  the  blood  slumbers  in  the  veins,  how  often  do  we 
wish  that  the  earth  would  turn  faster  on  its  axis,  that  the 
sun  would  rise  and  set  before  it  does ;  and,  to  escape  from 
the  weight  of  time,  how  many  follies,  how  many  crimes 
are  committed  !  Men  rush  on  danger,  and  even  on  death. 
Intrigue,  play,  foreign  and  domestic  broil,  such  are  tbeir 
resources ;  and,  when  these  things  fail,  they  destroy 
themselves. 

Now  in  travelling  we  multiply  events,  and  innocently. 
We  set  out,  as  it  were,  on  our  adventures ;  and  many  are 
those  that  occur  to  us,  morning,  noon,  and  night.  The 
day  we  come  to  a  place  which  we  have  long  heard  and 
read  of,  and  in  ITALY  we  do  so  continually,  it  is  an  era 
in  our  lives ;  and  from  that  moment  the  very  name  calls 


346  ITALY. 

up  a  picture.  How  delightfully  too  does  the  knowledge 
flow  in  upon  us,  and  how  fast !  *  Would  he  who  sat  in 
a  corner  of  his  library,  poring  over  books  and  maps,  learn 
more  or  so  much  in  the  time,  as  he  who,  with  his  eyes 
and  his  heart  open,  is  receiving  impressions  all  day  long 
from  the  things  themselves  ?f  How  accurately  do  they 
arrange  themselves  in  our  memory,  towns,  rivers,  moun- 
tains ;  and  in  what  living  colours  do  we  recall  the  dresses, 
manners,  and  customs  of  the  people !  Our  sight  is  the 
noblest  of  all  our  senses.  *  It  fills  the  mind  with  most 
ideas,  converses  with  its  objects  at  the  greatest  distance, 
and  continues  longest  in  action  without  being  tired.'  Our 
sight  is  on  the  alert  when  we  travel;  and  its  exercise 
is  then  so  delightful,  that  we  forget  the  profit  in  the 
pleasure. 

Like  a  river,  that  gathers,  that  refines  as  it  runs,  like 
a  spring  that  takes  its  course  through  some  rich  vein  of 
mineral,  we  improve  and  imperceptibly — nor  in  the  head 
only,  but  in  the  heart.  Our  prejudices  leave  us,  one  by 
one.  Seas  and  mountains  are  no  longer  our  boundaries. 
We  learn  to  love,  and  esteem,  and  admire  beyond  them. 
Our  benevolence  extends  itself  with  our  knowledge. 
And  must  we  not  return  better  citizens  than  we  went  ? 
For  the  more  we  become  acquainted  with  the  institutions 
of  other  countries,  the  more  highly  must  we  value  our  own. 

*  To  judge  at  once  of  a  nation,  we  have  only  to  throw  our  eyes  on 
the  markets  and  the  fields.  If  the  markets  are  well-supplied,  the  fields 
well-cultivated,  all  is  right.  If  otherwise,  we  may  say,  and  say  truly, 
these  people  are  barbarous  or  oppressed. 

f  Assuredly  not,  if  the  last  has  laid  a  proper  foundation.  Knowledge 
makes  knowledge  as  money  makes  money,  nor  ever  perhaps  so  fast  as 
on  a  journey. 


ITALY. 


I  threw  down  my  pen  in  triumph.  '  The  question,' 
said  I,  '  is  set  at  rest  for  ever.  And  yet  — 

'And  yet — '  I  must  still  say.*  The  WISEST  OF  MEN 
seldom  went  out  of  the  walls  of  ATHENS  ;  and  for  that 
worst  of  evils,  that  sickness  of  the  soul,  to  which  we  are 
most  liable  when  most  at  our  ease,  is  there  not  after  all  a 
surer  and  yet  pleasanter  remedy,  a  remedy  for  which  we 
have  only  to  cross  the  threshold?  A  PIEDMONTESE 
nobleman,  into  whose  company  I  fell  at  TURIN,  had  not 
long  before  experienced  its  efficacy ;  and  his  story,  which 
he  told  me  without  reserve,  was  as  follows. 

'  I  was  weary  of  life,  and,  after  a  day,  such  as  few  have 
known  and  none  would  wish  to  remember,  was  hurrying 
along  the  street  to  the  river,  when  I  felt  a  sudden  check. 
I  turned  and  beheld  a  little  boy,  who  had  caught  the 
skirt  of  my  cloak  in  his  anxiety  to  solicit  my  notice. 
His  look  and  manner  were  irresistible.  Not  less  so  was 
the  lesson  he  had  learnt.  "  There  are  six  of  us ;  and  we 
are  dying  for  want  of  food." — "Why  should  I  not,"  said 
I  to  myself,  "  relieve  this  wretched  family  ?  I  have  the 
means ;  and  it  will  not  delay  me  many  minutes.  But 
what,  if  it  does1?"  The  scene  of  misery  he  conducted 
me  to,  I  cannot  describe.  I  threw  them  my  purse ;  and 
their  burst  of  gratitude  overcame  me.  It  filled  my  eyes 
...  it  went  as  a  cordial  to  my  heart.  "  I  will  call  again 
to-morrow,"  I  cried.  "  Fool  that  I  was,  to  think  of 
leaving  a  world,  where  such  pleasure  was  to  be  had,  and 
so  cheaply ! " 

*  For  that  knowledge,  indeed,  which  is  the  most  precious,  we  have 
not  far  to  go ;  and  how  often  is  it  to  be  found  where  least  it  is  looked 
for  ? — 'I  have  learned  more,'  said  a  dying  man  on  the  scaffold,  'in  one 
little  dark  corner  of  yonder  tower,  than  by  any  travel  in  so  many  places 
as  I  have  seen.' — HOLIXSHEK. 


348  ITALY. 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 

IT  was  a  well 

Of  whitest  marble,  white  as  from  the  quarry ; 
And  richly  wrought  with  many  a  high  relief, 
Greek  sculpture — in  some  earlier  day  perhaps 
A  tomb,  and  honoured  with  a  hero's  ashes. 
The  water  from  the  rock  filled  and  o'erflowed; 
Then  dashed  away,  playing  the  prodigal, 
And  soon  was  lost  —  stealing  unseen,  unheard, 
Thro'  the  long  grass,  and  round  the  twisted  roots 
Of  aged  trees ;  discovering  where  it  ran 
By  the  fresh  verdure.     Overcome  with  heat, 
I  threw  me  down ;  admiring,  as  I  lay, 
That  shady  nook,  a  singing-place  for  birds, 
That  grove  so  intricate,  so  full  of  flowers, 
More  than  enough  to  please  a  child  a-Maying. 

The  sun  had  set,  a  distant  convent-bell 
Ringing  the  Angelus ;  and  now  approached 
The  hour  for  stir  and  village-gossip  there, 
The  hour  REBEKAH  came,  when  from  tjie  well 
She  drew  with  such  alacrity  to  serve 
The  stranger  and  his  camels.     Soon  I  heard 
Footsteps ;  and  lo,  descending  by  a  path 
Trodden  for  ages,  many  a  nymph  appeared, 
Appeared  and  vanished,  bearing  on  her  head 
Her  earthen  pitcher.     It  called  up  the  day 
ULYSSES  landed  there;  and  long  I  gazed, 
Like  one  awaking  in  a  distant  time.* 

*  The  place  here  described  is  near  Mola  di  Gaeta  in  the  kingdom  of 
Naples. 


ITALY. 


At  length  there  came  the  loveliest  of  them  all, 
Her  little  brother  dancing  down  before  her; 
And  ever  as  he  spoke,  which  he  did  ever, 
Turning  and  looking  up  in  warmth  of  heart 
And  brotherly  affection.     Stopping  there, 
She  joined  her  rosy  hands,  and,  filling  them 
With  the  pure  element,  gave  him  to  drink ; 
And,  while  he  quenched  his  thirst,  standing  on  tip-toe, 
Looked  down  upon  him  with  a  sister's  smile, 
Nor  stirred  till  he  had  done,  fixed  as  a  statue. 

Then  hadst  thou  seen  them  as  they  stood,  CANOVA, 
Thou  hadst  endowed  them  with  immortal  youth; 
And  they  had  ever  more  lived  undivided, 
Winning  all  hearts  —  of  all  thy  works  the  fairest. 


BANDITTI. 

'Tis  a  wild  life,  fearful  and  full  of  change, 
The  mountain-robber's.     On  the  watch  he  lies, 
Levelling  his  carbine  at  the  passenger; 
And,  when  his  work  is  done,  he  dares  not  sleep. 
Time  was,  the  trade  was  nobler,  if  not  honest ; 
When  they  that  robbed,  were  men  of  better  faith 
Than  kings  or  pontiffs;  when,  such  reverence 
The  Poet  drew  among  the  woods  and  wilds, 
A  voice  was  heard,  that  never  bade  to  spare, 
Crying  aloud,  '  Hence  to  the  distant  hills ! 
TASSO  approaches,  he,  whose  song  beguiles 
The  day  of  half  its  hours ;  whose  sorcery 
Dazzles  the  sense,  turning  our  forest-glades 
To  lists  that  blaze  with  gorgeous  armoury, 
30 


350  ITALY. 

Our  mountain-caves  to  regal  palaces. 

Hence,  nor  descend  till  he  and  his  are  gone. 

Let  him  fear  nothing.' 

When  along  the  shore, 

And  by  that  path  that,  wandering  on  its  way, 
Leads  through  the  fatal  grove  where  TULLY  fell, 
(Grey  and  o'ergrown,  an  ancient  tomb  is  there) 
He  came  and  they  withdrew,  they  were  a  race 
Careless  of  life  in  others  and  themselves, 
For  they  had  learnt  their  lesson  in  a  camp : 
But  not  ungenerous.     'Tis  no  longer  so. 
Now  crafty,  cruel,  torturing  ere  they  slay 
The  unhappy  captive,  and  with  bitter  jests 
Mocking  Misfortune ;  vain,  fantastical, 
Wearing  whatever  glitters  in  the  spoil; 
And  most  devout,  though,  when  they  kneel  and  pray, 
With  every  bead  they  could  recount  a  murder  — 
As  by  a  spell  they  start  up  in  array, 
As  by  a  spell  they  vanish  —  theirs  a  band, 
Not  as  elsewhere  of  outlaws,  but  of  such 
As  sow  and  reap,  and  at  the  cottage-door 
Sit  to  receive,  return  the  traveller's  greeting; 
Now  in  the  garb  of  peace,  now  silently 
Arming  and  issuing  forth,  led  on  by  men, 
Whose  names  on  innocent  lips  are  words  of  fear, 
Whose  lives  have  long  been  forfeit. —  Some  there  are 
That,  ere  they  rise  to  this  bad  eminence, 
Lurk,  night  and  day,  the  plague-spot  visible, 
The  guilt  that  says,  Beware;  and  mark  we  now 
Him,  where  he  lies,  who  couches  for  his  prey 
At  the  bridge-foot  in  some  dark  cavity 
Scooped  by  the  waters,  or  some  gaping  tomb, 


ITALY.  351 

Nameless  and  tenantless,  whence  the  red  fox 

Slunk  as  he  entered.     There  he  broods,  in  spleen 

Gnawing  his  beard;  his  rough  and  sinewy  frame 

O'erwritten  with  the  story  of  his  life; 

On  his  wan  cheek  a  sabre-cut,  well  earned 

In  foreign  warfare ;  on  his  breast  the  brand 

Indelible,  burnt  in  when  to  the  port 

He  clanked  his  chain,  among  a  hundred  more 

Dragged  ignominiously ;  on  every  limb 

Memorials  of  his  glory  and  his  shame, 

Stripes  of  the  lash  and  honourable  scars, 

And  channels  here  and  there  worn  to  the  bone 

By  galling  fetters. He  comes  slowly  forth, 

Unkennelling,  and  up  that  savage  dell 

Anxiously  looks;  his  cruse,  an  ample  gourd, 

(Duly  replenished  from  the  vintner's  cask) 

Slung  from  his  shoulder ;  in  his  breadth  of  belt 

Two  pistols  and  a  dagger  yet  uncleansed, 

A  parchment  scrawled  with  uncouth  characters, 

And  a  small  vial,  his  last  remedy, 

His  cure,  when  all  things  fail.     No  noise  is  heard, 

Save  when  the  rugged  bear  and  the  gaunt  wolf 

Howl  in  the  upper  region,  or  a  fish 

Leaps  in  the  gulf  beneath.     And  now  he  kneels; 

And  (like  a  scout,  when  listening  to  the  tramp 

Of  horse  or  foot)  lays  his  experienced  ear 

Close  to  the  ground,  then  rises  and  explores, 

Then  kneels  again,  and,  his  short  rifle-gun 

Against  his  cheek,  waits  patiently. Two  Monks, 

Portly,  grey-headed,  on  their  gallant  steeds, 
Descend  where  yet  a  mouldering  cross  o'erhangs 
The  grave  of  one  that  from  the  precipice 


352  ITALY. 

Fell  in  evil  hour.     Their  bridle-bells 

Ring  merrily;  and  many  a  loud,  long  laugh 

Re-echoes ;  but  at  once  the  sounds  are  lost. 

Unconscious  of  the  good  in  store  below, 

The  holy  fathers  have  turned  off,  and  now 

Cross  the  brown  heath,  ere  long  to  wag  their  beards 

Before  my  lady-abbess,  and  discuss 

Things  only  known  to  the  devout  and  pure 

O'er  her  spiced  bowl  —  then  shrive  the  sister-hood 

Sitting  by  turns  with  an  inclining  ear 

In  the  confessional. He  moves  his  lips 

As  with  a  curse  —  then  paces  up  and  down, 
Now  fast,  now  slow,  brooding  and  muttering  on ; 
Gloomy  alike  to  him  Future  and  Past. 

But  hark,  the  nimble  tread  of  numerous  feet ! 
'Tis  but  a  dappled  herd,  come  down  to  slake 
Their  thirst  in  the  cool  wave.     He  turns  and  aims 
Then  checks  himself,  unwilling  to  disturb 

The  sleeping  echoes. Once  again  he  earths ; 

Slipping  away  to  house  with  them  beneath, 

His  old  companions  in  that  hiding-place, 

The  bat,  the  toad,  the  blind-worm,  and  the  newt; 

And  hark,  a  footstep,  firm  and  confident, 

As  of  a  man  in  haste.     Nearer  it  draws ; 

And  now  is  at  the  entrance  of  the  den. 

Ha!  'tis  a  comrade,  sent  to  gather  in 

The  band  for  some  great  enterprise. Who  want? 

A  sequel  may  read  on.     The  unvarnished  tale, 
That  follows,  will  supply  the  place  of  one. 
'Twas  told  me  by  the  Count  St.  Angelo, 
When  in  a  blustering  night  he  sheltered  me 
In  that  brave  castle  of  his  ancestors 


ITALY.  353 

O'er  GARIGLIANO,  and  in  such  indeed 
As  every  day  brings  with  it — in  a  land 
Where  laws  are  trampled  on,  and  lawless  men 
Walk  in  the  sun;  but  it  should  not  be  lost, 
For  it  may  serve  to  bind  us  to  our  Country. 


AN  ADVENTURE. 

THREE  days  they  lay  in  ambush  at  my  gate, 

Then  sprung  and  led  me  captive.     Many  a  wild 

We  traversed;  but  RUSCONI,  'twas  no  less, 

Marched  by  my  side,  and,  when  I  thirsted,  climbed 

The  cliffs  for  water;  though  whene'er  he  spoke, 

'Twas  briefly,  sullenly;  and  on  he  led, 

Distinguished  only  by  an  amulet, 

That  in  a  golden  chain  hung  from  his  neck, 

A  crystal  of  rare  virtue.     Night  fell  fast, 

When  on  a  heath,  black  and  immeasurable, 

He  turned  and  bade  them  halt.     'Twas  where  the  earth 

Heaves  o'er  the  dead  —  where  erst  some  ALARIC 

Fought  his  last  fight,  and  every  warrior  threw 

A  stone  to  tell  for  ages  where  he  lay. 

Then  all  advanced,  and,  ranging  in  a  square, 
Stretched  forth  their  arms  as  on  the  holy  cross, 
From  each  to  each  their  sable  cloaks  extending, 
That,  like  the  solemn  hangings  of  a  tent, 
Covered  us  round;  and  in  the  midst  I  stood, 
Weary  and  faint,  and  face  to  face  with  one, 
Whose  voice,  whose  look  dispenses  life  and  death, 
Whose  heart  knows  no  relentings.     Instantly 
A  light  was  kindled,  and  the  Bandit  spoke. 
30*  2u 


354  ITALY. 

'I  know  thee.     Thou  hast  sought  us,  for  the  sport 
Slipping  thy  blood-hounds  with  a  hunter's  cry ; 
And  thou  hast  found  at  last.     Were  I  as  thou, 
I  in  thy  grasp  as  thou  art  now  in  ours, 
Soon  should  I  make  a  midnight-spectacle, 
Soon,  limb  by  limb,  be  mangled  on  a  wheel, 
Then  gibbeted  to  blacken  for  the  vultures. 
But  I  would  teach  thee  better — how  to  spare. 
Write  as  I  dictate.     If  thy  ransom  comes, 
Thou  liv'st.     If  not, —  but  answer  not,  I  pray, 
Lest  thou  provoke  me.     I  may  strike  thee  dead; 
And  know,  young  man,  it  is  an  easier  thing 
To  do  it  than  to  say  it.     Write,  and  thus.' — 
I  wrote.     *  'Tis  well,'  he  cried.     'A  peasant-boy, 
Trusty  and  swift  of  foot,  shall  bear  it  hence ; 
Meanwhile  lie  down  and  rest.     This  cloak  of  mine 
Will  serve  thee;  it  has  weathered  many  a  storm.' 

The  watch  was  set ;  and  twice  it  had  been  changed, 
When  morning  broke,  and  a  wild  bird,  a  hawk, 
Flew  in  a  circle,  screaming.     I  looked  up, 
And  all  were  gone,  save  him  who  now  kept  guard, 
And  on  his  arms  lay  musing.     Young  he  seemed, 
And  sad,  as  though  he  could  indulge  at  will 
Some  secret  grief.     'Thou  shrinkest  back,'  he  said. 
*  Well  may'st  thou,  lying,  as  thou  dost,  so  near 
A  Ruffian,  one  for  ever  linked  and  bound 
To  guilt  and  infamy.     There  was  a  time 
When  he  had  not  perhaps  been  deemed  unworthy, 
When  he  had  watched  that  planet  to  its  setting, 
And  dwelt  with  pleasure  on  the  meanest  thing 
Nature  gives  birth  to.     Now,  alas,  'tis  past. 

'  Wouldst  thou  know  more  ?     My  story  is  an  old  one. 


ITALY.  355 

I  loved,  was  scorned;  I  trusted,  was  betrayed; 

And  in  my  anguish,  my  necessity, 

Met  with  the  fiend,  the  tempter  —  in  RUSCONI. 

"  Why  thus  ? "  he  cried.     "  Thou  wouldst  be  free  and 

dar'st  not. 

Come  and  assert  thy  birth-right  while  thou  canst. 
A  robber's  cave  is  better  than  a  dungeon; 
And  death  itself,  what  is  it  at  the  worst, 
What  but  a  harlequin's  leap?"     Him  I  had  known, 
Had  served  with,  suffered  with ;  and  on  the  walls 
Of  CAPUA,  while  the  moon  went  down,  I  swore 

Allegiance  on  his  dagger. Dost  thou  ask 

How  I  have  kept  my  oath?  —  Thou  shalt  be  told, 
Cost  what  it  may.     But  grant  me,  I  implore, 
Grant  me  a  passport  to  some  distant  land, 
That  I  may  never,  never  more  be  named. 
Thou  wilt,  I  know  thou  wilt. 

Two  months  ago, 

When  on  a  vineyard-hill  we  lay  concealed 
And  scattered  up  and  down  as  we  were  wont, 
I  heard  a  damsel  singing  to  herself, 
And  soon  espied  her,  coming  all  alone, 
In  her  first  beauty.     Up  a  path  she  came, 
Leafy  and  intricate,  singing  her  song, 
A  song  of  love  by  snatches ;  breaking  off 
If  but  a  flower,  an  insect  in  the  sun 
Pleased  for  an  instant;  then  as  carelessly 
The  strain  resuming,  and,  where'er  she  stopt, 
Rising  on  tip-toe  underneath  the  boughs 
To  pluck  a  grape  in  very  wantonness. 
Her  look,  her  mien  and  maiden-ornaments 
Showed  gentle  birth;  and,  step  by  step,  she  came 


356  ITALY. 

Nearer  and  nearer,   to  the  dreadful  snare. 

None  else  were  by;  and,  as  I  gazed  unseen, 

Her  youth,  her  innocence  and  gaiety 

Went  to  iny  heart !  and,  starting  up,  I  breathed 

"Fly —  for  your  life!"     Alas,  she  shrieked,  she  fell; 

And,  as  I  caught  her  falling,  all  rushed  forth. 

"A  Wood-nymph!"  cried  RUSCONI.     "By  the  light, 

Lovely  as  Hebe !     Lay  her  in  the  shade." 

I  heard  him  not.     I  stood  as  in  a  trance. 

"  What,"  he  exclaimed  with  a  malicious  smile, 

"Wouldst  thou  rebel?"     I  did  as  he  required. 

"Now  bear  her  hence  to  the  well-head  below; 

A  few  cold  drops  will  animate  this  marble. 

Go !     'Tis  an  office  all  will  envy  thee ; 

But  thou  hast  earned  it."     As  I  staggered  down, 

Unwilling  to  surrender  her  sweet  body; 

Her  golden  hair  dishevelled  on  a  neck 

Of  snow,  and  her  fair  eyes  closed  as  in  sleep, 

Frantic  with  love,  with  hate,  "Great  God!"  I  cried, 

(I  had  almost  forgotten  how  to  pray ; 

But  there  are  moments  when  the  courage  comes) 

"Why  may  I  not,  while  yet  —  while  yet  I  can, 

Release  her  from  a  thraldom  worse  than  death?" 

'Twas  done  as  soon  as  said.     I  kissed  her  brow, 

And  smote  her  with  my  dagger.     A  short  cry 

She  uttered,  but  she  stirred  not;  and  to  heaven 

Her  gentle  spirit  fled.     'Twas  where  the  path 

In  its  descent  turned  suddenly.     No  eye 

Observed  me,  though  their  steps  were  following  fast. 

But  soon  a  yell  broke  forth,  and  all  at  once 

Levelled  with  deadly  aim.     Then  I  had  ceased 

To  trouble  or  be  troubled,  and  had  now 


ITALY.  357 

(Would  I  were  there !)  been  slumbering  in  my  grave, 
Had  not  RUSCONI  with  a  terrible  shout 
Thrown  himself  in  between  us,  and  exclaimed, 
Grasping  my  arm,  "  'Twas  bravely,  nobly  done ! 
Is  it  for  deeds  like  these  thou  wear'st  a  sword? 
Was  this  the  business  that  thou  cam'st  upon? 

—  But  'tis  his  first  offence,  and  let  it  pass. 
Like  a  young  tiger  he  has  tasted  blood, 
And  may  do  much  hereafter.     He  can  strike 
Home  to  the  hilt."     Then  in  an  under-tone 

"  Thus  wouldst  thou  justify  the  pledge  I  gave, 
When  in  the  eyes  of  all  I  read  distrust? 
For  once,"  and  on  his  cheek,  methought,  I  saw 
The  blush  of  virtue,  "I  will  save  thee,  Albert; 
Again  I  cannot." 

Ere  his  tale  was  told, 

As  on  the  heath  we  lay,  my  ransom  came ; 
And  in  six  days,  with  no  ungrateful  mind, 
Albert  was  sailing  on  a  quiet  sea. 

—  But  the  night  wears,  and  thou  art  much  in  need 
Of  rest.     The  young  Antonio,  with  his  torch, 

Is  waiting  to  conduct  thee  to  thy  chamber. 


NAPLES. 

THIS  region,  surely,  is  not  of  the  earth.* 
Was  it  not  dropt  from  heaven?     Not  a  grove, 
Citron  or  pine  or  cedar,  not  a  grot 
Sea-worn  and  mantled  with  the  gadding  vine, 

*  Un  pezzo  di  cielo  caduto  in  terra.     SAXNAZAKO. 


358  ITALY. 

But  breathes  enchantment.     Not  a  cliff  but  flings 
On  the  clear  wave  some  image  of  delight, 
Some  cabin-roof  glowing  with  crimson  flowers, 
Some  ruined  temple  or  fallen  monument, 
To  muse  on  as  the  bark  is  gliding  by. 
And  be  it  mine  to  muse  there,  mine  to  glide, 
From  day-break,  when  the  mountain  pales  his  fire 
Yet  more  and  more,  and  from  the  mountain-top, 
Till  then  invisible,  a  smoke  ascends, 
Solemn  and  slow,  as  erst  from  ARARAT, 
When  he,  the  Patriarch,  who  escaped  the  Flood, 
Was  with  his  house-hold  sacrificing  there  — 
From  day-break  to  that  hour,  the  last  and  best, 
When,  one  by  one,  the  fishing-boats  come  forth, 
Each  with  its  glimmering  lantern  at  the  prow, 
And,  when  the  nets  are  thrown,  the  evening-hymn 
Steals  o'er  the  trembling  waters. 

Everywhere 

Fable  and  Truth  have  shed,  in  rivalry, 
Each  her  peculiar  influence.     Fable  came, 
And  laughed  and  sung,  arraying  Truth  in  flowers, 
Like  a  young  child  her  grandam.     Fable  came, 
Earth,  sea  and  sky  reflecting,  as  she  flew, 
A  thousand,  thousand  colours  not  their  own; 
And  at  her  bidding,  lo !  a  dark  descent 
To  TARTARUS,  and  those  thrice  happy  fields, 
Those  fields  with  ether  pure  and  purple  light 
Ever  invested,  scenes  by  Him  pourtrayed,* 
Who  here  was  wont  to  wander,  here  invoke 
The  Sacred  Muses, f  here  receive,  record 

*  VIRGIL. 

f  Quarum  sacra  fero,  ingenti  percussus  amore. 


ITALY.  359 

What  they  revealed,  and  on  the  western  shore 
Sleeps  in  a  silent  grove,  o'erlooking  thee, 
Beloved  PARTHENOPE. 

Yet  here,  methinks, 

Truth  wants  no  ornament,  in  her  own  shnpe 
Filling  the  mind  by  turns  with  awe  and  love, 
By  turns  inclining  to  wild  ecstasy, 
And  soberest  meditation.     Here  the  vines 
Wed,  each  her  elm,  and  o'er  the  golden  grain 
Hang  their  luxuriant  clusters,  chequering 
The  sunshine :  where,  when  cooler  shadows  fall, 
And  the  mild  moon  her  fairy  net-work  weaves, 
The  lute,  or  mandoline,  accompanied 
By  many  a  voice  yet  sweeter  than  their  own, 
Kindles,  nor  slowly ;  and  the  dance  *  displays 
The  gentle  arts  and  witcheries  of  love, 
Its  hopes  and  fears  and  feignings,  till  the  youth 
Drops  on  his  knee  as  vanquished,  and  the  maid, 
Her  tambourine  uplifting  with  a  grace, 
Nature's  and  Nature's  only,  bids  him  rise. 

But  here  the  mighty  Monarch  underneath, 
He  in  his  palace  of  fire,  diffuses  round 
A  dazzling  splendour.     Here,  unseen,  unheard, 
Opening  another  Eden  in  the  wild, 
His  gifts  he  scatters;  save,  when  issuing  forth 
In  thunder,  he  blots  out  the  sun,  the  sky, 
And,  mingling  all  things  earthly  as  in  scorn, 
Exalts  the  valley,  lays  the  mountain  low, 
Pours  many  a  torrent  from  his  burning  lake, 

•;;-  The  Tarantella. 


360  ITALY. 

And  in  an  hour  of  universal  mirth, 
What  time  the  trump  proclaims  the  festival, 
Buries  some  capital  city,  there  to  sleep 
The  sleep  of  ages  —  till  a  plough,  a  spade 
Disclose  the  secret,  and  the  eye  of  day 
Glares  coldly  on  the  streets,  the  skeletons; 
Each  in  his  place,  each  in  his  gay  attire, 
And  eager  to  enjoy. 

Let  us  go  round; 

And  let  the  sail  be  slack,  the  course  be  slow, 
That  at  our  leisure,  as  we  coast  along, 
We  may  contemplate,  and  from  every  scene 
Receive  its  influence.     The  CUMJEAN  towers, 
There  did  they  rise,  sun-gilt;  and  here  thy  groves, 
Delicious  BALE.     Here  (what  would  they  not?) 
The  masters  of  the  earth,  unsatisfied, 
Built  in  the  sea;  and  now  the  boatman  steers 
O'er  many  a  crypt  and  vault  yet  glimmering, 
O'er  many  a  broad  and  indestructible  arch, 
The  deep  foundations  of  their  palaces; 
Nothing  now  heard  ashore,  so  great  the  change, 
Save  when  the  sea-mew  clamours,  or  the  owl 
Hoots  in  the  temple. 

What  the  mountainous  Isle,* 

Seen  in  the  South.     'Tis  where  a  Monster  dwelt,  f 
Hurling  his  victims  from  the  topmost  cliff; 
Then,  and  then  only  merciful,  so  slow, 
So  subtle  were  the  tortures  they  endured. 
Fearing  and  feared  he  lived,  cursing  and  cursed; 
And  still  the  dungeons  in  the  rock  breathe  out 

*  Capreae.  -j-  TIBERIUS. 


ITALY.  361 

Darkness,  distemper.     Strange,  that  one  so  vile 

Should  from  his  den  strike  terror  through  the  world ; 

Should,  where  withdrawn  in  his  decrepitude, 

Say  to  the  noblest,  be  they  where  they  might, 

1  Go  from  the  earth ! '  and  from  the  earth  they  went. 

Yet  such  things  were  —  and  will  be,  when  mankind, 

Losing  all  virtue,  lose  all  energy; 

And  for  the  loss  incur  the  penalty, 

Trodden  down  and  trampled. 

Let  us  turn  the  prow, 

And  in  the  track  of  him  who  went  to  die,* 
Traverse  this  valley  of  waters,  landing  where 
A  waking  dream  awaits  us.     At  a  step 
Two  thousand  years  roll  backward,  and  we  stand, 
Like  those  so  long  within  that  awful  Place,f 
Immovable,  nor  asking,  Can  it  be? 

Once  did  I  linger  there  alone,  till  day 
Closed,  and  at  length  the  calm  of  twilight  came, 
So  grateful,  yet  so  solemn !     At  the  fount, 
Just  where  the  three  ways  meet,  I  stood  and  looked, 
('Twas  near  a  noble  house,  the  house  of  Pansa)  — 
And  all  was  still  as  in  the  long,  long  night 
That  followed  when  the  shower  of  ashes  fell, 
When  they  that  sought  POMPEII,  sought  in  vain ; 
It  was  not  to  be  found.     But  now  a  ray, 
Bright  and  yet  brighter,  on  the  pavement  glanced, 
And  on  the  wheel-track  Avorn  for  centuries, 
And  on  the  stepping-stones  from  side  to  side, 

*  The  elder  PLINY.     See  the  letter  in  which  his  Nephew  relates  to 
Tacitus  the  circumstances  of  his  death, 
j-  Pompeii. 

31  2v 


362  ITALY. 

O'er  which  the  maidens,  with  their  water-urns, 
Were  wont  to  trip  so  lightly.     Full  and  clear, 
The  moon  was  rising,  and  at  once  revealed 
The  name  of  every  dweller,  and  his  craft ; 
Shining  throughout  with  an  unusual  lustre, 
And  lighting  up  this  City  of  the  Dead. 

Mark,  where  within,  as  though  the  emhers  lived, 
The  ample  chimney-vault  is  dun  with  smoke. 
There  dwelt  a  miller;  silent  and  at  rest 
His  mill-stones  now.     In  old  companionship 
Still  do  they  stand  as  on  the  day  he  went, 
Each  ready  for  its  office  —  but  he  comes  not. 
And  here,  hard  by  (where  one  in  idleness 
Has  stopt  to  scrawl  a  ship,  an  armed  man; 
And  in  a  tablet  on  the  wall  we  read 
Of  shows  ere  long  to  be)  a  sculptor  wrought, 
Nor  meanly;  blocks,  half-chiselled  into  life, 
Waiting  his  call.     Here  long,  as  yet  attests 
The  trodden  floor,  an  olive-merchant  drew 
From  many  an  earthen  jar,  no  more  supplied ; 
And  here  from  his  a  vintner  served  his  guests 
Largely,  the  stain  of  his  o'erflowing  cups 
Fresh  on  the  marble.     On  the  bench,  beneath, 
They  sate  and  quaffed  and  looked  on  them  that  passed. 
Gravely  discussing  the  last  news  from  ROME. 

But  lo,  engraven  on  a  threshold-stone, 
That  word  of  courtesy,  so  sacred  once, 
HAIL  !     At  a  master's  greeting  we  may  enter. 
And  lo,  a  fairy-palace  !  every  where 
As  through  the  courts  and  chambers  we  advance, 
Floors  of  mosaic,  walls  of  arabesque, 


ITALY.  363 

And  columns  clustering  in  Patrician  splendour. 
But  hark,  a  footstep !     May  we  not  intrude  ? 
And  now,  methinks,  I  hear  a  gentle  laugh, 
And  gentle  voices  mingling  as  in  converse ! 

—  And  now  a  harp-string  as  struck  carelessly, 
And  now  —  along  the  corridor  it  comes  — 

I  cannot  err,  a  filling  as  of  baths ! 

—  Ah  no,  'tis  but  a  mockery  of  the  sense, 
Idle  and  vain !     We  are  but  where  we  were ; 
Still  wandering  in  a  City  of  the  Dead! 


THE  BAG  OP  GOLD. 

I  DINE  very  often  with  the  good  old  Cardinal  *  *  and,  I 
should  add,  with  his  cats ;  for  they  always  sit  at  his  table, 
and  are  much  the  gravest  of  the  company.  His  beaming 
countenance  makes  us  forget  his  age ;  nor  did  I  ever  see 
it  clouded  till  yesterday,  when,  as  we  were  contemplating 
the  sunset  from  his  terrace,  he  happened,  in  the  course 
of  our  conversation,  to  allude  to  an  affecting  circumstance 
in  his  early  life. 

He  had  just  left  the  University  of  PALERMO  and  was 
entering  the  army,  when  he  became  acquainted  with  a 
young  lady  of  great  beauty  and  merit,  a  Sicilian  of  a 
family  as  illustrious  as  his  own.  Living  near  each  other, 
they  were  often  together;  and,  at  an  age  like  theirs, 
friendship  soon  turns  to  love.  But  his  father,  for  what 
reason  I  forget,  refused  his  consent  to  the  union ;  till, 
alarmed  at  the  declining  health  of  his  son,  he  promised 
to  oppose  it  no  longer,  if,  after  a  separation  of  three 
years,  they  continued  to  love  as  much  as  ever. 


364  ITALY. 

Relying  on  that  promise,  he  said,  I  set  out  on  a  long 
journey ;  but  in  my  absence  the  usual  arts  were  resorted 
to.  Our  letters  were  intercepted;  and  false  rumours 
were  spread  —  first  of  my  indifference,  then  of  my  incon- 
stancy, then  of  my  marriage  with  a  rich  heiress  of  SIENNA  ; 
and,  when  at  length  I  returned  to  make  her  my  own,  I 
found  her  in  a  convent  of  Ursuline  nuns.  She  had  taken 
the  veil;  and  I,  said  he  with  a  sigh  —  what  else  remained 
for  me  ?  —  I  went  into  the  church. 

Yet  many,  he  continued,  as  if  to  turn  the  conversation, 
very  many  have  been  happy  though  we  were  not ;  and, 
if  I  am  not  abusing  an  old  man's  privilege,  let  me  tell 
you  a  story  with  a  better  catastrophe.  It  was  told  me 
when  a  boy ;  and  you  may  not  be  unwilling  to  hear  it,  for 
it  bears  some  resemblance  to  that  of  the  Merchant  of 
Venice. 

We  were  now  arrived  at  a  pavilion  that  commanded 
one  of  the  noblest  prospects  imaginable  ;  the  mountains, 
the  sea,  and  the  islands  illuminated  by  the  last  beams  of 
day,  and,  sitting  down  there,  he  proceeded  with  his  usual 
vivacity ;  for  the  sadness,  that  had  come  across  him,  was 
gone. 

There  lived,  in  the  fourteenth  century,  near  BOLOGNA, 
a  Widow-lady  of  the  Lambertini  family,  called  MADONNA 
LUCREZIA,  who  in  a  revolution  of  the  State  had  known 
the  bitterness  of  poverty,  and  had  even  begged  her  bread ; 
kneeling  day  after  day  like  a  statue  at  the  gate  of  the 
Cathedral ;  her  rosary  in  her  left  hand  and  her  right  held 
out  for  charity;  her  long  black  veil  concealing  a  face 
that  had  once  adorned  a  /Court,  and  had  received  the 
homage  of  as  many  sonnets  as  PETRARCH  has  written  on 
LAURA. 


ITALY.  365 

But  Fortune  had  at  last  relented ;  a  legacy  from  a 
distant  relation  had  come  to  her  relief ;  and  she  was  now 
the  mistress  of  a  small  inn  at  the  foot  of  the  Apennines ; 
where  she  entertained  as  well  as  she  could,  and  where 
those  only  stopped  who  were  contented  with  a  little.  The 
house  was  still  standing,  when  in  my  youth  I  passed  that 
way ;  though  the  sign  of  the  White  Cross,*  the  cross  of 
the  Hospitallers,  was  no  longer  to  be  seen  over  the  door; 
a  sign  which  she  had  taken,  if  we  may  believe  the  tradi- 
tion there,  in  honour  of  a  maternal  uncle,  a  grand-master 
of  that  Order,  whose  achievements  in  PALESTINE  she 
would  sometimes  relate.  A  mountain-stream  ran  through 
the  garden ;  and  at  no  great  distance,  where  the  road 
turned  on  its  way  to  BOLOGNA,  stood  a  little  chapel,  in 
which  a  lamp  was  always  burning  before  a  picture  of  the 
Virgin,  a  picture  of  great  antiquity,  the  work  of  some 
Greek  artist. 

Here  she  was  dwelling,  respected  by  all  who  knew  her ; 
when  an  event  took  place,  which  threw  her  into  the 
deepest  affliction.  It  was  at  noon-day  in  September  that 
three  foot-travellers  arrived,  and,  seating  themselves  on 
a  bench  under  her  vine-trellis,  were  supplied  with  a  flagon 
of  Aleatico  by  a  lovely  girl,  her  only  child,  the  image  of 
her  former  self.  The  eldest  spoke  like  a  Venetian,  and 
his  beard  was  short  and  pointed  after  the  fashion  of  Venice. 
In  his  demeanour  he  affected  great  courtesy,  but  his  look 
inspired  little  confidence ;  for  when  he  smiled,  which  he 
did  continually,  it  was  with  his  lips  only,  and  not  with 
his  eyes ;  and  they  were  always  turned  from  yours.  His 
companions  were  bluff  and  frank  in  their  manner,  and  on 

*  La  Croce  Bianca. 

31* 


366  ITALY. 

their  tongues  had  many  a  soldier's  oath.  In  their  hats 
they  wore  a  medal,  such  as  at  that  age  was  often  dis- 
tributed in  war  ;  and  they  were  evidently  subalterns  in  one 
of  those  Free  Bands  which  were  always  ready  to  serve  in 
any  quarrel,  if  a  service  it  could  be  called,  where  a  battle 
was  little  more  than  a  mockery ;  and  the  slain,  as  on  an 
opera-stage,  were  up  and  fighting  to-morrow.  Overcome 
with  the  heat,  they  threw  aside  their  cloaks ;  and,  with 
their  gloves  tucked  under  their  belts,  continued  for  some 
time  in  earnest  conversation. 

At  length  they  rose  to  go;  and  the  Venetian  thus 
addressed  their  Hostess.  '  Excellent  Lady,  may  we  leave 
under  your  roof,  for  a  day  or  two,  this  bag  of  gold?' 
'  You  may,'  she  replied  gaily.  '  But  remember,  we  fasten 
only  with  a  latch.  Bars  and  bolts  we  have  none  in  our 
village ;  and  if  we  had,  where  would  be  your  security  ? ' 
'In  your  word,  Lady.' 

'But  what  if  I  die  to-night?  Where  would  it  be 
then  ?'  said  she,  laughing.  '  The  money  would  go  to 
the  Church;  for  none  could  claim  it.' 

'  Perhaps  you  will  favour  us  with  an  acknowledgment.' 

'If  you  will  write  it.' 

An  acknowledgment  was  written  accordingly,  and  she 
signed  it  before  Master  Bartolo  the  Village-physician, 
who  had  just  called  on  his  mule  to  learn  the  news  of 
the  day ;  the  gold  to  be  delivered  when  applied  for,  but 
to  be  delivered  (these  were  the  words)  not  to  one  —  nor 
to  two — but  to  the  three;  words  wisely  introduced  by 
those  to  whom  it  belonged,  knowing  what  they  knew 
of  each  other.  The  gold  they  had  just  released  from 
a  miser's  chest  in  PERUGIA;  and  they  were  now  on  a 
scent  that  promised  more. 


ITALY.  367 

They  and  their  shadows  were  no  sooner  departed,  than 
the  Venetian  returned,  saying,  '  Give  me  leave  to  set  my 
seal  on  the  bag,  as  the  others  have  done  ;'  and  she 
placed  it  on  a  table  before  him.  But  in  that  moment 
she  was  called  away  to  receive  a  Cavalier,  who  had  just 
dismounted  from  his  horse;  and,  when  she  came  back, 
it  was  gone.  The  temptation  had  proved  irresistible; 
and  the  man  and  the  money  had  vanished  together. 

'Wretched  woman  that  I  am!'  she  cried,  as  in  an 
agony  of  grief  she  threw  herself  on  her  daughter's  neck, 
'What  will  become  of  us?  Are  we  again  to  be  cast 
out  into  the  wide  world  ?  .  .  Unhappy  child,  would  that 
thou  hadst  never  been  born!'  and  all  day  long  she 
lamented ;  but  her  tears  availed  her  little.  The  others 
were  not  slow  in  returning  to  claim  their  due ;  and  there 
were  no  tidings  of  the  thief;  he  had  fled  far  away  with 
his  plunder.  A  Process  against  her  was  instantly  begun 
in  BOLOGNA;  and  what  defence  could  she  make?  how 
release  herself  from  the  obligation  of  the  bond?  Wil- 
fully or  in  negligence  she  had  parted  with  the  gold; 
she  had  parted  with  it  to  one,  when  she  should  have 
kept  it  for  all ;  and  inevitable  ruin  awaited  her  !  '  Go, 
GIANETTA,'  said  she  to  her  daughter,  'take  this  veil, 
which  your  mother  has  worn  and  wept  under  so  often, 
and  implore  the  Counsellor  Calderino  to  plead  for  us 
on  the  day  of  trial.  He  is  generous,  and  will  listen  to 
the  Unfortunate.  But,  if  he  will  not,  go  from  door  to 
door  ;  Monaldi  cannot  refuse  us.  Make  haste,  my  child ; 
but  remember  the  chapel  as  you  pass  by  it.  Nothing 
prospers  without  a  prayer.' 

Alas,  she  went,  but  in  vain.  These  were  retained 
against  them;  those  demanded  more  than  they  had  to 


368  ITALY. 

give ;  and  all  bad  them  despair.  What  was  to  be  done  ? 
No  advocate;  and  the  cause  to  come  on  to-morrow! 

Now  GIANETTA  had  a  lover;  and  he  was  a  student 
of  the  law,  a  young  man  of  great  promise,  LORENZO 
MARTELLI.  He  had  studied  long  and  diligently  under 
that  learned  lawyer,  GIOVANNI  ANDREAS,  who,  though 
little  of  stature,  was  great  in  renown,  and  by  his  con- 
temporaries was  called  the  Arch-doctor,  the  Rabbi  of 
Doctors,  the  Light  of  the  World.  Under  him  he  had 
studied,  sitting  on  the  same  bench  with  Petrarch ;  and 
also  under  his  daughter  NOVELLA,  who  would  often 
lecture  to  the  scholars,  when  her  father  was  otherwise 
engaged,  placing  herself  behind  a  small  curtain,  lest  her 
beauty  should  divert  their  thoughts ;  a  precaution  in  this 
instance  at  least  unnecessary,  LORENZO  having  lost  his 
heart  to  another.* 

To  him  she  flies  in  her  necessity ;  but  of  what  assist- 
ance can  he  be?  He  has  just  taken  his  place  at  the 
bar,  but  he  has  never  spoken  ;  and  how  stand  up  alone, 
unpractised  and  unprepared  as  he  is,  against  an  array 
that  would  alarm  the  most  experienced  ?  —  '  Were  I  as 
mighty  as  I  am  weak,'  said  he,  '  my  fears  for  you  would 
make  me  as  nothing.  But  I  will  be  there,  GIANETTA  ; 
and  may  the  Friend  of  the  Friendless  give  me  strength 
in  that  hour !  Even  now  my  heart  fails  me ;  but,  come 
what  will,  while  I  have  a  loaf  to  share,  you  and  your 
Mother  shall  never  want.  I  will  beg  through  the  world 
for  you.' 

*  '  Ce  pourroit  etre,'  says  Bayle,  '  la  matiere  d'un  joli  proble"me ;  on 
pourroit  Examiner  si  cette  fille  avan9oit,  ou  si  elle  retardoit  le  profit  de 
ses  auditeurs,  en  leur  cachant  son  beau  visage.  II  y  auroit  cent  choses 
&  dire  pour  et  centre  la-dessus.' 


ITALY.  369 

The  day  arrives,  and  the  court  assembles.  The  claim 
is  stated,  and  the  evidence  given.  And  now  the  defence 
is  called  for  —  but  none  is  made ;  not  a  syllable  is 
uttered;  and,  after  a  pause  and  a  consultation  of  some 
minutes,  the  Judges  are  proceeding  to  give  judgment, 
silence  having  been  proclaimed  in  the  court,  -when  Lo- 
REXZO  rises  and  thus  addresses  them.  *  Reverend  Signers. 
Young  as  I  am,  may  I  venture  to  speak  before  you  ?  I 
would  speak  in  behalf  of  one  who  has  none  else  to  help 
her ;  and  I  will  not  keep  you  long.  Much  has  been 
said;  much,  on  the  sacred  nature  of  the  obligation  — 
and  we  acknowledge  it  in  its  full  force.  Let  it  be  ful- 
filled, and  to  the  last  letter.  It  is  what  we  solicit,  what 
we  require.  But  to  whom  is  the  bag  of  gold  to  be  de- 
livered? What  says  the  bond?  Not  to  one  —  not  to 
two  —  but  to  the  three.  Let  the  three  stand  forth  and 
claim  it.' 

From  that  day,  (for  who  can  doubt  the  issue  ?)  none 
were  sought,  none  employed,  but  the  subtle,  the  eloquent 
LORENZO.  Wealth  followed  Fame ;  nor  need  I  say  how 
soon  he  sat  at  his  marriage-feast,  or  who  sat  beside  him. 


A  CHARACTER. 

ONE  of  two  things  MOXTRIOLI  may  have, 
My  envy  or  compassion.     Both  he  cannot. 
Yet  on  he  goes,  numbering  as  miseries, 
What  least  of  all  he  would  consent  to  lose, 
What  most  indeed  he  prides  himself  upon, 
And,  for  not  having,  most  despises  me. 

2w 


370  ITALY. 

'At  morn  the  minister  exacts  an  hour; 

At  noon  the  king.     Then  comes  the  council-board ; 

And  then  the  chase,  the  supper.     When,  ah,  when, 

The  leisure  and  the  liberty  I  sigh  for? 

Not  when  at  home;  at  home  a  miscreant-crew, 

That  now  no  longer  serve  me,  mine  the  service. 

And  then  that  old  hereditary  bore, 

The  steward,  his  stories  longer  than  his  rent-roll, 

Who  enters,  quill  in  ear,  and,  one  by  one, 

As  tho'  I  lived  to  write,  and  wrote  to  live, 

Unrolls  his  leases  for  my  signature.' 

He  clanks  his  fetters  to  disturb  my  peace. 
Yet  who  would  wear  them,  and  become  the  slave 
Of  wealth  and  power,  renouncing  willingly 
His  freedom,  and  the  hours  that  fly  so  fast, 
A  burden  or  a  curse  when  misemployed, 
But  to  the  wise  how  precious !  —  every  day 
A  little  life,  a  blank  to  be  inscribed 
With  gentle  deeds,  such  as  in  after-time 
Console,  rejoice,  whene'er  we  turn  the  leaf 
To  read  them  ?     All,  wherever  in  the  scale, 
Have,  be  they  high  or  low,  or  rich  or  poor, 
Inherit  they  a  sheep-hook  or  a  sceptre, 
Much  to  be  grateful  for ;  but  most  has  he, 
Born  in  that  middle  sphere,  that  temperate  zone, 
Where  Knowledge  lights  his  lamp,  there  most  secure, 
And  Wisdom  comes,  if  ever,  she  who  dwells 
Above  the  clouds,  above  the  firmament, 
That  Seraph  sitting  in  the  heaven  of  heavens. 

What  men  most  covet,  wealth,  distinction,  power 
Are  baubles  nothing  worth,  that  only  serve 
To  rouse  us  up,  as  children  in  the  schools 


'•*'.'  • 
:*:*.. 
A? 
C» 


^HET  Stand  Letvreen  t'  -=  eea 

Av.tul  iue|p.afeaLs,l}i4,pf  T.vh.om  ive  know  not 
\  •    - 

^r#1 


ITALY.  371 

Are  roused  up  to  exertion.     The  reward 

Is  in  the  race  we  run,  not  in  the  prize; 

And  they,  the  few,  that  have  it  ere  they  earn  it, 

Having,  by  favour  or  inheritance, 

These  dangerous  gifts  placed  in  their  idle  hands, 

And  all  that  should  await  on  worth  well-tried, 

All  in  the  glorious  days  of  old  reserved 

For  manhood  most  mature  or  reverend  age, 

O     ' 

Know  not,  nor  ever  can,  the  generous  pride 
That  glows  in  him  who  on  himself  relies, 
Entering  the  lists  of  life. 


PjESTUM. 

THEY  stand  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea; 

Awful  memorials,  but  of  whom  we  know  not ! 

The  seaman,  passing,  gazes  from  the  deck. 

The  buffalo-driver,  in  his  shaggy  cloak, 

Points  to  the  work  of  magic  and  moves  on. 

Time  was  they  stood  along  the  crowded  street, 

Temples  of  Gods !  and  on  their  ample  steps 

What  various  habits,  various  tongues  beset 

The  brazen  gates  for  prayer  and  sacrifice  ! 

Time  was  perhaps  the  third  who  sought  for  Justice ; 

And  here  the  accuser  stood,  and  there  the  accused; 

And  here  the  judges  sate,  and  heard,  and  judged. 

All  silent  now !  —  as  in  the  ages  past, 

Trodden  under  foot  and  mingled,  dust  with  dust. 

How  many  centuries  did  the  sun  go  round 
From  MOUNT  ALBURNUS  to  the  TYRRHENE  sea, 
While,  by  some  spell  rendered  invisible, 


: 


372  ITALY. 

Or,  if  approached,  approached  by  him  alone 

Who  saw  as  though  he  saw  not,  they  remained 

As  in  the  darkness  of  a  sepulchre, 

Waiting  the  appointed  time !     All,  all  within 

Proclaims  that  Nature  had  resumed  her  right, 

And  taken  to  herself  what  man  renounced; 

No  cornice,  triglyph,  or  worn  abacus, 

But  with  thick  ivy  hung  or  branching  fern ; 

Their  iron-brown  o'erspread  with  brightest  verdure ! 

From  my  youth  upward  have  I  longed  to  tread 
This  classic  ground  —  And  am  I  here  at  last? 
Wandering  at  will  through  the  long  porticoes, 
And  catching,  as  through  some  majestic  grove, 
Now  the  blue  ocean,  and  now,  chaos-like, 
Mountains  and  mountain-gulfs,  and,  half-way  up, 
Towns  like  the  living  rock  from  which  they  grew? 
A  cloudy  region,  black  and  desolate, 
Where  once  a  slave  withstood  a  world  in  arms.* 

The  air  is  sweet  with  violets,  running  wild 
'Mid  broken  friezes  and  fallen  capitals; 
Sweet  as  when  TULLY,  writing  down  his  thoughts, 
Those  thoughts  so  precious  and  so  lately  lost, 
(Turning  to  thee,  divine  Philosophy, 
Ever  at  hand  to  calm  his  troubled  soul) 
Sailed  slowly  by,  two  thousand  years  ago, 
For  ATHENS;  when  a  ship,  if  north-east  winds 
Blew  from  the  PJSSTAN  gardens,  slacked  her  course. 

On  as  he  moved  along  the  level  shore, 
These  temples,  in  their  splendour  eminent 
'Mid  arcs  and  obelisks,  and  domes  and  towers, 

*  Spartacus.     See  Plutarch  in  the  Life  of  Crassus. 


,        ITALY.  373 

Reflecting  back  the  radiance  of  the  west, 

Well  might  he  dream  of  Glory !  —  Now,  coiled  up, 

The  serpent  sleeps  within  them ;  the  she-wolf 

Suckles  her  young:  and,  as  alone  I  stand 

In  this,  the  nobler  pile,  the  elements 

Of  earth  and  air  its  only  floor  and  covering, 

How  solemn  is  the  stillness !     Nothing  stirs 

Save  the  shrill-voiced  cicala  flitting  round 

On  the  rough  pediment  to  sit  and  sing ; 

Or  the  green  lizard  rustling  through  the  grass, 

And  up  the  fluted  shaft  with  short  quick  spring, 

To  vanish  in  the  chinks  that  Time  has  made. 

In  such  an  hour  as  this,  the  sun's  broad  disk 
Seen  at  his  setting,  and  a  flood  of  light 
Filling  the  courts  of  these  old  sanctuaries, 
(Gigantic  shadows,  broken  and  confused, 
Athwart  the  innumerable  columns  flung) 
In  such  an  hour  he  came,  who  saw  and  told, 
Led  by  the  mighty  Genius  of  the  Place. 

Walls  of  some  capital  city  first  appeared, 
Half  razed,  half  sunk,  or  scattered  as  in  scorn ; 
—  And  what  within  them  ?  what  within  the  midst 
These  Three  in  more  than  their  original  grandeur, 
And,  round  about,  no  stone  upon  another? 
As  if  the  spoiler  had  fallen  back  in  fear, 
And,  turning,  left  them  to  the  elements. 

'Tis  said  a  stranger  in  the  days  of  old 
(Some  say  a  DORIAN,  some  a  SYBARITE; 
But  distant  things  are  ever  lost  in  clouds) 
'Tis  said  a  stranger  came,  and,  with  his  plough, 
Traced  out  the  site;  and  POSIDONIA  rose, 
Severely  great,  NEPTUXE  the  tutelar  God; 
32 


374  ITALY. 

And  in  her  haven 'many  a  mast  from  TYRE. 
Then  came  another,  an  unbidden  guest. 
He  knocked  and  entered  with  a  train  in  arms ; 
And  all  was  changed,  her  very  name  and  language! 
The  TYRIAN  merchant,  shipping  at  his  door 
Ivory  and  gold,  and  silk,  and  frankincense, 
Sailed  as  before,  but,  sailing,  cried,  '  For  Psestum ! ' 
And  now  a  VIRGIL,  now  an  OVID  sung 
Psestum's  twice-blowing  roses;  while,  within, 
Parents  and  children  mourned  —  and,  every  year, 
('Twas  on  the  day  of  some  old  festival) 
Met  to  give  way  to  tears,  and  once  again, 
Talked  in  the  ancient  tongue  of  things  gone  by. 
At  length  an  Arab  climbed  the  battlements, 
Slaying  the  sleepers  in  the  dead  of  night ; 
And  from  all  eyes  the  glorious  vision  fled! 
Leaving  a  place  lonely  and  dangerous, 
Where  whom  the  robber  spares,  a  deadlier  foe 
Strikes  at  unseen  —  and  at  a  time  when  joy 
Opens  the  heart,  and  summer-skies  are  blue, 
And  the  clear  air  is  soft  and  delicate; 
For  then  the  demon  works  —  then  with  that  air 
The  thoughtless  wretch  drinks  in  a  subtle  poison 
Lulling  to  sleep;  and,  when  he  sleeps,  he  dies. 

But  what  are  These  still  standing  in  the  midst? 
The  earth  has  rocked  beneath;  the  Thunder-stone 
Passed  through  and  through,  and  left  its  traces  there, 
Yet  still  they  stand  as  by  some  Unknown  Charter ! 
Oh,  they  are  Nature's  own  !  and,  as  allied 
To  the  vast  Mountains  and  the  eternal  Sea, 
They  want  no  written  history;  theirs  a  voice 
For  ever  speaking  to  the  heart  of  Man! 


ITALY.  375 


SORRENTO. 

HE  who  sets  sail  from  NAPLES,  when  the  wind 
Blows  fragrance  from  POSILIPO,  may  soon, 
Crossing  from  side  to  side  that  beautiful  lake, 
Land  underneath  the  cliff,  where  once  among 
The  children  gathering  shells  along  the  shore, 
One  laughed  and  played,  unconscious  of  his  fate ; 
His  to  drink  deep  of  sorrow,  and,  through  life, 
To  he  the  scorn  of  them  that  knew  him  not, 
Trampling  alike  the  giver  and  his  gift, 
The  gift  a  pearl  precious,  inestimable, 
A  lay  divine,  a  lay  of  love  and  war, 
To  charm,  ennoble,  and,  from  age  to  age, 
Sweeten  the  labour,  when  the  oar  was  plied 
Or  on  the  ADRIAN  or  the  TUSCAN  sea. 

There  would  I  linger  —  then  go  forth  again, 
And  hover  round  that  region  unexplored, 
Where  to  SALVATOR  (when,  as  some  relate, 
By  chance  or  choice  he  led  a  bandit's  life, 
Yet  oft  withdrew,  alone  and  unobserved, 
To  wander  through  those  awful  solitudes) 
Nature  revealed  herself.     Unveiled  she  stood, 
In  all  her  wildness,  all  her  majesty, 
As  in  that  elder  time,  ere  Man  was  made. 

There  would  I  linger,  then  go  forth  again; 
And  he  who  steers  due  east,  doubling  the  cape, 
Discovers,  in  a  crevice  of  the  rock, 
The  fishing-town,  AMALFI.     Haply  there 
A  heaving  bark,  an  anchor  on  the  strand, 


376  ITALY. 

May  tell  him  what  it  is;  but  what  it  was, 
Cannot  be  told  so  soon. 

The  time  has  been, 

When  on  the  quays  along  the  SYRIAN  coast, 
'Twas  asked  and  eagerly,  at  break  of  dawn, 
'What  ships  are  from  AMALFI?'  when  her  coins, 
Silver  and  gold,  circled  from  clime  to  clime ; 
From  ALEXANDRIA  southward  to  SENNAAR, 
And  eastward,  through  DAMASCUS  and  CABUL 
And  SAMARCAND,  to  thy  great  wall,  CATHAY. 

Then  were  the  nations  by  her  wisdom  swayed ; 
And  every  crime  on  every  sea  was  judged 
According  to  her  judgments.     In  her  port 
Prows,  strange,  uncouth,  from  NILE  and  NIGER  met, 
People  of  various  feature,  various  speech ; 
And  in  their  countries  many  a  house  of  prayer, 
And  many  a  shelter,  where  no  shelter  was, 
And  many  a  well,  like  JACOB'S  in  the  wild, 
Rose  at  her  bidding.     Then  in  PALESTINE, 
By  the  way-side,  in  sober  grandeur,  stood 
A  Hospital,,  that,  night  and  day,  received 
The  pilgrims  of  the  west ;  and,  when  'twas  asked, 
'Who  are  the  noble  founders?'  every  tongue 
At  once  replied,  '  The  merchants  of  AMALFI.' 
That  Hospital,  when  GODFREY  scaled  the  walls, 
Sent  forth  its  holy  men  in  complete  steel ; 
And  hence,  the  cowl  relinquished  for  the  helm, 
That  chosen  band,  valiant,  invincible, 
So  long  renowned  as  champions  of  the  Cross, 
In  RHODES,  in  MALTA. 

For  three  hundred  years 
There,  unapproachsd  but  from  the  deep,  they  dwelt; 


ITALY.  377 

Assailed  for  ever,  yet  from  age  to  age 
Acknowledging  no  master.     From  the  deep 
They  gathered  in  their  harvests ;  bringing  home, 
In  the  same  ship,  relics  of  ancient  GREECE, 
That  land  of  glory  where  their  fathers  lay, 
Grain  from  the  golden  vales  of  SICILY, 
And  INDIAN  spices.     When  at  length  they  fell, 
Losing  their  liberty,  they  left  mankind 
A  legacy,  compared  with  which  the  wealth 
Of  Eastern  kings  —  what  is  it  in  the  scale? 
The  mariner's  compass. 

They  are  now  forgot, 

And  with  them  all  they  did,  all  they  endured, 
Struggling  with  fortune.     When  SICARDI  stood 
On  his  high  deck,  his  falchion  in  his  hand, 
And,  with  a  shout  like  thunder,  cried,  '  Come  forth, 
And  serve  me  in  SALERNO  ! '  forth  they  came, 
Covering  the  sea,  a  mournful  spectacle; 
The  women  wailing,  and  the  heavy  oar 
Falling  unheard.     Not  thus  did  they  return, 
The  tyrant  slain ;  though  then  the  grass  of  years 
Grew  in  their  streets. 

There  now  to  him  who  sails 
Under  the  shore,  a  few  white  villages, 
Scattered  above,  below,  some  in  the  clouds, 
Some  on  the  margin  of  the  dark  blue  sea, 
And  glittering  thro'  their  lemon-groves,  announce 
The  region  of  AMALFI.     Then,  half-fallen, 
A  lonely  watch-tower  on  the  precipice, 
Their  ancient  land-mark,  comes.     Long  may  it  last; 
And  to  the  seaman  in  a  distant  age, 
Though  now  he  little  thinks  how  large  his  debt, 
Serve  for  their  monument ! 
32  * 


378  ITALY. 


MONTE  GASSING. 

*  WHAT  hangs  behind   that   curtain  ? ' — '  Wouldst  thou 

learn  ? 

If  thou  art  wise,  thou  wouldst  not.     'Tis  by  some 
Believed  to  be  His  master-work,  who  looked 
Beyond  the  grave,  and  on  the  chapel-wall, 
As  though  the  day  were  come,  were  come  and  past, 
Drew  the  Last  Judgment.*     But  the  Wisest  err. 
He  who  in  secret  wrought,  and  gave  it  life, 
For  life  is  surely  there  and  visible  change, 
Life,  such  as  none  could  of  himself  impart, 
(They  who  behold  it,  go  not  as  they  came, 
But  meditate  for  many  and  many  a  day) 
Sleeps  in  the  vault  beneath.     We  know  not  much ; 
But  what  we  know,  we  will  communicate. 
'Tis  in  an  ancient  record  of  the  House ; 
And  may  it  make  thee  tremble,  lest  thou  fall ! 

Once  — on  a  Christmas-eve  —  ere  yet  the  roof 
Rung  with  the  hymn  of  the  Nativity, 
There  came  a  stranger  to  the  convent-gate, 
And  asked  admittance ;  ever  and  anon, 
As  if  he  sought  what  most  he  feared  to  find, 
Looking  behind  him.     When  within  the  walls, 
These  walls  so  sacred  and  inviolate, 
Still  did  he  look  behind  him;  oft  and  long, 
With  curling,  quivering  lip  and  haggard  eye, 
Catching  at  vacancy.     Between  the  fits, 
For  here,  'tis  said,  he  lingered  while  he  lived, 

*  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


ITALY.  379 

He  would  discourse  and  with  a  mastery, 
A  charm  by  none  resisted,  none  explained, 
Unfelt  before;  but  when  his  cheek  grew  pale, 
(Nor  was  the  respite  longer,  if  so  long, 
Than  while  a  shepherd  in  the  vale  below 
Counts,  as  he  folds,  five  hundred  of  his  flock) 
All  was  forgotten.     Then,  howe'er  employed, 
He  would  break  off,  and  start  as  if  he  caught 
A  glimpse  of  something  that  would  not  be  gone ; 
And  turn  and  gaze  and  shrink  into  himself, 
As  though  the  fiend  was  there,  and,  face  to  face, 
Scowled  o'er  his  shoulder. 

Most  devout  he  was; 
Most  unremitting  in  the  Services ; 
Then,  only  then,  untroubled,  unassailed ; 
And,  to  beguile  a  melancholy  hour, 
Would  sometimes  exercise  that  noble  art 
He  learnt  in  FLOKENCE  ;  with  a  master's  hand, 
As  to  this  day  the  Sacristy  attests, 
Painting  the  wonders  of  the  APOCALYPSE. 

At  length  he  sunk  to  rest,  and  in  his  cell 
Left,  when  he  went,  a  work  in  secret  done, 
The  portrait,  for  a  portrait  it  must  be, 
That  hangs  behind  the  curtain.     Whence  he  drew, 
None  here  can  doubt;  for  they  that  come  to  catch 
The  faintest  glimpse  —  to  catch  it  and  be  gone, 
Gaze  as  he  gazed,  then  shrink  into  themselves, 
Acting  the  self-same  part.     But  why  'twas  drawn, 
Whether,  in  penance,  to  atone  for  Guilt, 
Or  to  record  the  anguish  Guilt  inflicts, 
Or  haply  to  familiarise  his  mind 
With  what  he  could  not  fly  from,  none  can  say, 
For  none  could  learn  the  burden  of  his  soul.' 


380  ITALY. 


THE  HARPER. 

IT  was  a  harper,  wandering  with  his  harp, 
His  only  treasure;  a  majestic  man, 
By  time  and  grief  ennobled,  not  subdued; 
Though  from  his  height  descending,  day  by  day, 
And,  as  his  upward  look  at  once  betrayed, 
Blind  as  old  HOMER.     At  a  fount  he  sate, 
Well-known  to  many  a  weary  traveller; 
His  little  guide,  a  boy  not  seven  years  old, 
But  grave,  considerate  beyond  his  years, 
Sitting  beside  him.     Each  had  ate  his  crust 
In  silence,  drinking  of  the  virgin  spring; 
And  now  in  silence,  as  their  custom  was, 
The  sun's  decline  awaited. 

But  the  child 

Was  worn  with  travel.     Heavy  sleep  weighed  down 
His  eye-lids;  and  the  grandsire,  when  we  came, 
Emboldened  by  his  love  and  by  his  fear, 
His  fear  lest  night  o'ertake  them  on  the  road, 
Humbly  besought  me  to  convey  them  both 
A  little  onward.     Such  small  services 
Who  can  refuse  —  Not  I;  and  him  who  can, 
Blest  though  he  be  with  every  earthly  gift, 
I  cannot  envy.     He,  if  wealth  be  his, 
Knows  not  its  uses.     So  from  noon  till  night, 
Within  a  crazed  and  tattered  vehicle, 
That  yet  displayed,  in  rich  emblazonry, 
A  shield  as  splendid  as  the  BARDI  wear,* 

*  See  Note. 


,      ITALY.  381 

We  lumbered  on  together;  the  old  man 
Beguiling  many  a  league  of  half  its  length, 
When  questioned  the  adventures  of  his  life, 
And  all  the  dangers  he  had  undergone; 
His  ship-wrecks  on  inhospitable  coasts, 
And  his  long  warfare. 

They  were  bound,  he  said, 
To  a  great  fair  at  REGGIO  ;  and  the  boy, 
Believing  all  the  world  were  to  be  there, 
And  I  among  the  rest,  let  loose  his  tongue, 
And  promised  me  much  pleasure.     His  short  trance, 
Short  as  it  was,  had,  like  a  charmed  cup, 
Restored  his  spirit,  and,  as  on  we  crawled, 
Slow  as  the  snail  (my  muleteer  dismounting, 
And  now  his  mules  addressing,  now  his  pipe, 
And  now  Luigi)  he  poured  out  his  heart, 
Largely  repaying  me.     At  length  the  sun 
Departed,  setting  in  a  sea  of  gold; 
And,  as  we  gazed,  he  bade  me  rest  assured 
That  like  the  setting  would  the  rising  be. 

Their  harp  —  it  had  a  voice  oracular, 
And  in  the  desert,  in  the  crowded  street, 
Spoke  when  consulted.     If  the  treble  chord 
Twanged  shrill  and  clear,  o'er  hill  and  dale  they  went, 
The  grandsire,  step  by  step,  led  by  the  child; 
And  not  a  rain-drop  from  a  passing  cloud 
Fell  on  their  garments.     Thus  it  spoke  to-day; 
Inspiring  joy,  and,  in  the  young  one's  mind, 
Brightening  a  path  already  full  of  sunshine. 


882  ITALY. 


THE  FELUCA. 

DAY  glimmered;  and  beyond  the  precipice 
(Which  my  mule  followed  as  in  love  with  fear, 
Or  as  in  scorn,  yet  more  and  more  inclining 
To  tempt  the  danger  where  it  menaced  most) 
A  sea  of  vapour  rolled.     Methought  we  went 
Along  the  utmost  edge  of  this,  our  world; 
But  soon  the  surges  fled,  and  we  descried 
Nor  dimly,  though  the  lark  was  silent  yet, 
Thy  gulf,  LA  SPEZZIA.     Ere  the  morning-gun. 
Ere  the  first  day-streak,  we  alighted  there; 
And  not  a  breath,  a  murmur !     Every  sail 
Slept  in  the  offing.     Yet  along  the  shore 
Great  was  the  stir;  as  at  the  noontide  hour, 
None  unemployed.     Where  from  its  native  rock 
A  streamlet,  clear  and  full,  ran  to  the  sea, 
And  maidens  knelt  and  sung  as  they  were  wont, 
Washing  their  garments.     Where  it  met  the  tide, 
Sparkling,  and  lost,  an  ancient  pinnace  lay 
Keel  upward,  and  the  faggot  blazed,  the  tar 
Fumed  from  the  cauldron ;  while,  beyond  the  fort, 
Whither  I  wandered,  step  by  step  led  on, 
The  fishers  dragged  their  net,  the  fish  within 
At  every  heave  fluttering  and  full  of  life, 
At  every  heave  striking  their  silver  fins 

'Gainst  the  dark  meshes. Soon  a  boatman's  shout 

Re-echoed;  and  red  bonnets  on  the  beach, 
Waving,  recalled  me.     We  embarked  and  left 
That  noble  haven,  where,  when  GENOA  reigned, 


ITALY.  383 

A  hundred  galleys  sheltered  —  in  the  day 
When  lofty  spirits  met,  and,  deck  to  deck, 
DORIA,  PISANI  fought ;  that  narrow  field 
Ample  enough  for  glory.     On  we  went 
Ruffing  with  many  an  oar  the  crystalline  sea, 
On  from  the  rising  to  the  setting  sun 
In  silence  —  underneath  a  mountain-ridge, 
Untamed,  untameable,  reflecting  round 
The  saddest  purple ;  nothing  to  be  seen 
Of  life  or  culture,  save  where,  at  the  foot, 
Some  village  and  its  church,  a  scanty  line, 
Athwart  the  wave  gleamed  faintly.     Fear  of  111 
Narrowed  our  course,  fear  of  the  hurricane, 
And  that  still  greater  scourge,  the  crafty  Moor, 
Who,  like  a  tiger  prowling  for  his  prey, 
Springs  and  is  gone,  and  on  the  adverse  coast, 
(Where  TRIPOLI  and  TUNIS  and  ALGIERS 
Forge  fetters,  and  white  turbans  on  the  mole 
Gather,  whene'er  the  Crescent  comes  displayed 
Over  the  Cross)  his  human  merchandise 
To  many  a  curious,  many  a  cruel  eye 
Exposes.     Ah,  how  oft,  where  now  the  sun 
Slept  on  the  shore,  have  ruthless  scimitars 
Flashed  through  the  lattice,  and  a  swarthy  crew 
Dragged  forth,  ere  long  to  number  them  for  sale, 
Ere  long  to  part  them  in  their  agony, 
Parent  and  child !     How  oft,  where  now  we  rode 
Over  the  billow,  has  a  wretched  son, 
Or  yet  more  wretched  sire,  grown  grey  in  chains. 
Laboured,  his  hands  upon  the  oar,  his  eyes 
Upon  the  land  —  the  land,  that  gave  him  birth; 
And,  as  he  gazed,  his  homestall  through  his  tears 


384  ITALY. 

Fondly  imagined;  when  a  Christian  ship 

Of  war  appearing  in  her  bravery, 

A  voice  in  anger  cried,  '  Use  all  your  strength ! ' 

But  when,  ah  when,  do  they  that  can,  forbear 
To  crush  the  unresisting?     Strange,  that  men, 
Creatures  so  frail,  so  soon,  alas,  to  die, 
Should  have  the  power,  the  will  to  make  this  world 
A  dismal  prison-house,  and  life  itself, 
Life  in  its  prime,  a  burden  and  a  curse 
To  him  who  never  wronged  them  ?     Who  that  breathes 
Would  not,  when  first  he  heard  it,  turn  away 
As  from  a  tale  monstrous,  incredible? 
Surely  a  sense  of  our  mortality, 
A  consciousness  how  soon  we  shall  be  gone, 
Or,  if  we  linger — but  a  few  short  years  — 
How  sure  to  look  upon  our  brother's  grave, 
Should  of  itself  incline  to  pity  and  love, 
And  prompt  us  rather  to  assist,  relieve, 
Than  aggravate  the  evils  each  is  heir  to. 

At  length  the  day  departed,  and  the  moon 
Rose  like  another  sun,  illumining 
Waters  and  woods  and  cloud-capt  promontories, 
Glades  for  a  hermit's  cell,  a  lady's  bower, 
Scenes  of  Elysium,  such  as  Night  alone 
Reveals  below,  nor  often  —  scenes  that  fled 
As  at  the  waving  of  a  wizard's  wand, 
And  left  behind  them,  as  their  parting  gift, 
A  thousand  nameless  odours.     All  was  still; 
And  now  the  nightingale  her  song  poured  forth 
In  such  a  torrent  of  heart-felt  delight, 
So  fast  it  flowed,  her  tongue  so  voluble, 
As  if  she  thought  her  hearers  would  be  gone 


ITALY.  385 

Ere  half  was  told.     'Twas  where  in  the  north-west, 

Still  unassailed  and  unassailable, 

Thy  pharos,  GENOA,  first  displayed  itself, 

Burning  in  stillness  on  its  craggy  seat; 

That  guiding-star  so  oft  the  only  one, 

When  those  now  glowing  in  the  azure  vault 

Are  dark  and  silent.     'Twas  where  o'er  the  sea, 

For  we  were  now  within  a  cable's  length, 

Delicious  gardens  hung;  green  galleries, 

And  marble  terraces  many  a  flight, 

And  fairy-arches  flung  from  cliff  to  cliff, 

Wildering,  enchanting ;  and,  above  them  all, 

A  Palace,  such  as  somewhere  in  the  East, 

In  Zenastan  or  Araby  the  blest, 

Among  its  golden  groves,  and  fruits  of  gold, 

And  fountains  scattering  rainbows  in  the  sky, 

Rose,  when  ALADDIX  rubbed  the  wondrous  lamp; 

Such,  if  not  fairer;  and,  when  we  shot  by, 

A  scene  of  revelry,  in  long  array 

As  with  the  radiance  of  a  setting  sun, 

The  windows  blazing.     But  we  now  approached 

A  City  far-renowned;*  and  wonder  ceased. 


GENOA. 

THIS  house  was  ANDREA  DORIA'S.     Here  he  lived; 
And  here  at  eve  relaxing,  when  ashore, 
Held  many  a  pleasant,  many  a  grave  discourse 
With  them  that  sought  him,  walking  to  and  fro 

*  Genoa. 

33  2y 


886  ITALY. 

As  on  his  deck.     'Tis  less  in  length  and  breadth 
Than  many  a  cabin  in  a  ship  of  war; 
But  'tis  of  marble,  and  at  once  inspires 
The  reverence  due  to  ancient  dignity. 

He  left  it  for  a  better;  and  'tis  now 
A  house  of  trade,  the  meanest  merchandise 
Cumbering  its  floors.     Yet,  fallen  as  it  is, 
'Tis  still  the  noblest  dwelling  —  even  in  GENOA! 
And  hadst  thou,  ANDREA,  lived  there  to  the  last, 
Thou  hadst  done  well ;  for  there  is  that  without, 
That  in  the  wall,  which  monarchs  could  not  give, 
Nor  thon  take  with  thee,  that  which  says  aloud, 
It  was  thy  Country's  gift  to  her  Deliverer. 

'Tis  in  the  heart  of  GENOA  (he  who  comes, 
Must  come  on  foot)  and  in  a  place  of  stir ; 
Men  on  their  daily  business,  early  and  late, 
Thronging  thy  very  threshold.     But,  when  there, 
Thou  wert  among  thy  fellow-citizens, 
Thy  children,  for  they  hailed  thee  as  their  sire; 
And  on  a  spot  thou  must  have  loved,  for  there, 
Calling  them  round,  thou  gav'st  them  more  than  life, 
Giving  what,  lost,  makes  life  not  worth  the  keeping. 
There  thou  didst  do  indeed  an  act  divine; 
Nor  couldst  thou  leave  thy  door  or  enter  in, 
Without  a  blessing  on  thee. 

Thou  art  now 

Again  among  them.     Thy  brave  mariners, 
They  who  had  fought  so  often  by  thy  side, 
Staining  the  mountain-billows,  bore  thee  back  ; 
And  thou  art  sleeping  in  thy  funeral-chamber. 

Thine  was  a  glorious  course ;  but  couldst  thou  thero, 
Clad  in  thy  cere-cloth  —  in  that  silent  vault, 


ITALY.  387 

Where  thou  art  gathered  to  thy  ancestors  — 
Open  thy  secret  heart  and  tell  us  all, 
Then  should  we  hear  thee  with  a  sigh  confess, 
A  sigh  how  heavy,  that  thy  happiest  hours 
Were  passed  before  these  sacred  walls  were  left, 
Before  the  ocean-wave  thy  wealth  reflected, 
And  pomp  and  power  drew  envy,  stirring  up 
The  ambitious  man,*  that  in  a  perilous  hour 
Fell  from  the  plank. 


MARCO  GRIFFONI. 

WAR  is  a  game  at  which  all  are  sure  to  lose,  sooner  or 
later,  play  they  how  they  will;  yet  every  nation  has 
delighted  in  war,  and  none  more  in  their  day  than  the 
little  republic  of  GENOA,  whose  galleys,  while  she  had 
any,  were  always  burning  and  sinking  those  of  the  Pisans, 
the  Venetians,  the  Greeks,  or  the  Turks ;  Christian  and 
Infidel  alike  to  her. 

But  experience,  when  dearly  bought,  is  seldom  thrown 
away  altogether.  A  moment  of  sober  reflection  came  at 
last ;  and  after  a  victory  the  most  splendid  and  ruinous 
of  any  in'  her  annals,  she  resolved  from  that  day  and  for 
ever  to  live  at  peace  with  all  mankind ;  having  in  her  long 
career  acquired  nothing  but  glory,  and  a  tax  on  every 
article  of  life. 

Peace  came,  but  with  none  of  its  blessings.  No  stir 
in  the  harbour,  no  merchandise  in  the  mart  or  on  the 
quay;  no  song  as  the  shuttle  was  thrown  or  the  plougli- 

*  FIESCO. 


388  ITALY. 

share  broke  the  furrow.  The  frenzy  had  left  a  languor 
more  alarming  than  itself.  Yet  the  burden  must  be  borne, 
the  taxes  be  gathered;  and,  year  after  year,  they  lay 
like  a  curse  on  the  land,  the  prospect  on  every  side 
growing  darker  and  darker,  till  an  old  man  entered  the 
senate-house  on  his  crutches  and  all  was  changed. 

MAKCO  GRIFFONI  was  the  last  of  an  ancient  family,  a 
family  of  royal  merchants ;  and  the  richest  citizen  in 
GENOA,  perhaps  in  Europe.  His  parents  dying  while  yet 
he  lay  in  the  cradle,  his  wealth  had  accumulated  from  the 
year  of  his  birth ;  and  so  noble  a  use  did  he  make  of  it 
when  he  arrived  at  manhood,  that  wherever  he  went,  he 
was  followed  by  the  blessings  of  the  people.  He  would 
often  say,  '  I  hold  it  only  in  trust  for  others ; '  but  GENOA 
was  then  at  her  old  amusement,  and  the  work  grew  on 
his  hands.  Strong  as  he  was,  the  evil  he  had  to  struggle 
with,  was  stronger  than  he.  His  cheerfulness,  his  alacrity 
left  him ;  and,  having  lifted  up  his  voice  for  Peace,  he 
withdrew  at  once  from  the  sphere  of  life  he  had  moved 
in  —  to  become,  as  it  were,  another  man. 

From  that  time  and  for  full  fifty  years  he  was  to  be 
seen  sitting,  like  one  of  the  founders  of  his  Houser  at  his 
desk  among  his  money-bags,  in  a  narrow  street  near  the 
Porto  Franco;  and  he,  who  in  a  famine  had* filled  the 
granaries  of  the  State,  sending  to  Sicily  and  even  to 
Egypt,  now  lived  only  as  for  his  heirs,  though  there  were 
none  to  inherit;  giving  no  longer  to  any  —  but  lending 
to  all  —  to  the  rich  on  their  bonds  and  the  poor  on  their 
pledges ;  lending  at  the  highest  rate  and  exacting  with 
the  utmost  rigour.  No  longer  relieving  the  miserable,  he 
sought  only  to  enrich  himself  by  their  misery ;  and  there 
he  sate  in  his  gown  of  frieze,  till  every  finger  was  pointed 


ITALY.  389 

at  him  m  passing  and  every  tongue  exclaimed,  'There 
sits  the  Miser ! ' 

But  in  that  character  and  amidst  all  that  obloquy  he 
was  still  the  same  as  ever,  still  acting  to  the  best  of  his 
judgment  for  the  good  of  his  fellow-citizens ;  and  when 
the  measure  of  their  calamities  was  full,  when  Peace  had 
come,  but  come  to  no  purpose,  and  the  lesson,  as  he 
flattered  himself,  was  graven  deep  in  their  minds,  then, 
but  not  till  then,  though  his  hair  had  long  grown  grey, 
he  threw  off  the  mask  and  gave  up  all  he  had,  to  annihi- 
late at  a  blow  his  great  and  cruel  adversaries,  those  taxes 
which,  when  excessive,  break  the  hearts  of  the  people ; 
a  glorious  achievement  for  an  individual,  though  a  blood- 
less one,  and  such  as  only  can  be  conceived  possible  in  a 
small  community  like  theirs. 

Alas,  how  little  did  he  know  of  human  nature  !  How 
little  had  he  reflected  on  the  ruling  passion  of  his  country- 
men, so  injurious  to  others  and  at  length  so  fatal  to 
themselves !  Almost  instantly  they  grew  arrogant  and 
quarrelsome ;  almost  instantly  they  were  in  arms  again  ; 
and  before  the  statue  was  up,  that  had  been  voted  to  his 
memory,  every  tax,  if  we  may  believe  the  historian,  was 
laid  on  as  before,  to  awaken  vain  regrets  and  wise  resolu- 
tions. 

A  FAREWELL.* 

AND  now  farewell  to  ITALY — perhaps 
For  ever !     Yet,  methinks,  I  could  not  go, 
I  could  not  leave  it,  were  it  mine  to  say, 

*  Written  at  Susa,  May  1,  1822. 

33* 


390  ITALY. 

;  Farewell  for  ever  ! '     Many  a  courtesy, 
That  sought  no  recompense,  and  met  with  none 
But  in  the  swell  of  heart  with  which  it  came, 
Have  I  experienced;  not  a  cabin  door, 
Go  where  I  would,  but  opened  with  a  smile; 
From  the  first  hour,  when,  in  my  long  descent, 
Strange  perfumes  rose,  rose  as  to  welcome  me, 
From  flowers  that  ministered  like  unseen  spirits ; 
From  the  first  hour,  when  vintage-songs  broke  forth, 
A  grateful  earnest,  and  the  Southern  lakes, 
Dazzlingly  bright,  unfolded  at  my  feet ; 
They  that  receive  the  cataracts,  and  ere  long 
Dismiss  them,  but  how  changed — onward  to  roll 
From  age  to  age  in  silent  majesty, 
Blessing  the  nations,  and  reflecting  round 
The  gladness  they  inspire. 

Gentle  or  rude, 

No  scene  of  life  but  has  contributed 
Much  to  remember — from  the  POLESINE, 
Where,  when  the  south-wind  blows,  and  clouds  on  clouds 
Gather  and  fall,  the  peasant  freights  his  boat, 
A  sacred  ark,  slung  in  his  orchard-grove; 
Mindful  to  migrate  when  the  king  of  floods* 
Visits  his  humble  dwelling,  and  the  keel, 
Slowly  uplifted  over  field  and  fence, 
Floats  on  a  world  of  waters  —  from  that  low, 
That  level  region,  where  no  echo  dwells, 
Or,  if  she  comes,  comes  in  her  saddest  plight, 
Hoarse,  inarticulate  —  on  to  where  the  path 
Is  lost  in  rank  luxuriance,  and  to  breathe 

*  The  Po. 


ITALY.  391 

Is  to  inhale  distemper,  if  not  death ; 
Where  the  wild-boar  retreats,  when  hunters  chafe, 
And,  when  the  day-star  flames,  the  buffalo-herd, 
Afflicted,  plunge  into  the  stagnant  pool, 
Nothing  discerned  amid  the  water-leaves, 
Save  here  and  there  the  likeness  of  a  head, 
Savage,  uncouth ;  where  none  in  human  shape 
Come,  save  the  herdsman,  levelling  his  length 
Of  lance  with  many  a  cry,  or,  Tartar-like, 
Urging  his  steed  along  the  distant  hill 
As  from  a  danger.     There,  but  not  to  rest, 
I  travelled  many  a  dreary  league,  nor  turned 
(Ah  then  least  willing,  as  who  had  not  been  ?) 
When  in  the  South,  against  the  azure  sky, 
Three  temples  rose  in  soberest  majesty, 
The  wondrous  work  of  some  heroic  race.* 

But  now  a  long  farewell !     Oft  while  I  live, 
If  once  again  in  England,  once  again 
In  my  own  chimney-nook,  as  Night  steals  on, 
With  half-shut  eyes  reclining,  oft,  methinks, 
While  the  wind  blusters  and  the  pelting  rain 
Clatters  without,  shall  I  recall  to  mind 
The  scenes,  occurrences  I  met  with  here 
And  wander  in  Elysium;  many  a  note 
Of  wildest  melody,  magician-like 
Awakening,  such  as  the  CALABRIAN  horn, 
Along  the  mountain-side,  when  all  is  still, 
Pours  forth  at  folding-time ;  and  many  a  chant, 
Solemn,  sublime,  such  as  at  midnight  flows 
From  the  full  choir,  when  richest  harmonies 

*  The  temples  of  Paestum. 


392  ITALY. 

Break  the  deep  silence  of  thy  glens,  LA  CAVA; 
To  him  who  lingers  there  with  listening  ear, 
Now  lost  and  now  descending  as  from  Heaven! 


AXD  now  a  parting  word  is  due  from  him 

Who,  in  the  classic  fields  of  ITALY, 

(If  haply  thou  hast  home  with  him  so  long,) 

Through  many  a  grove  by  many  a  fount  has  led  thee, 

By  many  a  temple  half  as  old  as  Time ; 

Where  all  was  still  awakening  them  that  slept, 

And  conjuring  up  where  all  was  desolate, 

Where  kings  were  mouldering  in  their  funeral  urns, 

And  oft  and  long  the  vulture  flapped  his  wing  — 

Triumphs  and  masques. 

Nature  denied  him  much, 

But  gave  him  at  his  birth  what  most  he  values; 
A  passionate  love  for  music,  sculpture,  painting, 
For  poetry,  the  language  of  the  gods, 
For  all  things  here,  or  grand  or  beautiful, 
A  setting  sun,  a  lake  among  the  mountains, 
The  light  of  an  ingenuous  countenance, 
And  what  transcends  them  all,  a  noble  action. 

Nature  denied  him  much,  but  gave  him  more ; 
And  ever,  ever  grateful  should  he  be, 
Though  from  his  cheek,  ere  yet  the  down  was  there, 
Health  fled;  for  in  his  heaviest  hours  would  come 
Gleams  such  as  come  not  now ;  nor  failed  he  then 
(Then  and  through  life  his  happiest  privilege) 
Full  oft  to  wander  where  the  Muses  haunt, 
Smit  with  the  love  of  song. 


ITALY.  393 

'Tis  now  long  since ; 

And  now,  while  yet  'tis  day,  would  he  withdraw 
Who,  when  in  youth  he  strung  his  lyre,  addressed 
A  former  generation.     Many  an  eye 
Bright  as  the  brightest  now,  is  closed  in  night, 
And  many  a  voice  how  eloquent,  is  mute, 
That  when  he  came,  disdained  not  to  receive 
His  lays  with  favour.         *        *        *        * 


2z 


P.  222, 1.  9. 

As  on  that  Sabbath-eve  when  He  arrived. 

1  J'arrive  ensoufflg,  tout  en  nage ;  le  coeur  me  bat ;  je  vois  de  loin  lea 
soldats  a  leur  poste ;  j'accours,  je  crie  d'une  voix  e'touffe'e.  II  e"toit  trop 
tard.' — Les  Confessions,  1.  i. 

P.  222,  1.  17. 
'Tis  not  a  tale  that  every  hour  briny s  with  it. 

"  Lines  of  eleven  syllables  occur  almost  in  every  page  of  Milton ; 
but  though  they  are  not  unpleasing,  they  ought  not  to  be  admitted  into 
heroic  poetry;  since  the  narrow  limits  of  our  language  allow  us  no 
other  distinction  of  epic  and  tragic  measures." — JOHNSON. 

It  is  remarkable  that  He  used  them  most  at  last.  In  the  Paradise 
Regained  they  occur  oftener  than  in  the  Paradise  Lost  in  the  proportion 
of  ten  to  one ;  and  let  it  be  remembered  that  they  supply  us  with 
another  close,  another  cadence ;  that  they  add,  as  it  were,  a  string  to 
the  instrument ;  and,  by  enabling  the  Poet  to  relax  at  pleasure,  to  rise 
and  fall  with  his  subject,  contribute  what  is  most  wanted,  compass, 
variety. 

Shakspeare  seems  to  have  delighted  in  them,  and  in  some  of  his 
soliloquies  has  used  them  four  and  five  times  in  succession ;  an  example 
I  have  not  followed  in  mine.  As  in  the  following  instance,  where  the 
subject  is  solemn  beyond  all  others. 

To  be,  or  not  to  be,  &c. 

They  come  nearest  to  the  flow  of  an  unstudied  eloquence,  and  should 
therefore  be  used  in  the  drama ;  but  why  exclusively  ?  Horace,  as  we 
learn  from  himself,  admitted  the  Musa  Pedestris  in  his  happiest  hours, 

(394) 


ITALY.  395 

in  those  when  he  was  most  at  his  ease ;  and  we  cannot  regret  her 
visits.  To  her  we  are  indebted  for  more  than  half  he  has  left  us ;  nor 
was  she  ever  at  his  elbow  in  greater  dishabille,  than  when  he  wrote  the 
celebrated  Journey  to  Brundusium. 

P.  223,  1.  25. 

like  Mm  of  old 

'  To  admire  or  despise  St.  Bernard  as  he  ought,'  says  Gibbon,  '  the 
reader,  like  myself,  should  have  before  the  windows  of  his  library  that 
incomparable  landskip.' 

P.  223,  1.  28. 

That  winds  beside  the  mirror  of  all  beauty, 

There  is  no  describing  in  words ;  but  the  following  lines  were  written 
on  the  spot,  and  may  serve  perhaps  to  recall  to  some  of  my  readers 
what  they  have  seen  in  this  enchanting  country. 

I  love  to  watch  in  silence  till  the  Sun 
Sets ;  and  MONT  BLANC,  arrayed  in  crimson  and  gold, 
Flings  his  broad  shadow  half  across  the  Lake ; 
That  shadow,  though  it  comes  through  pathless  tracts 
Of  Ether,  and  o'er  Alp  and  desert  drear, 
Only  less  bright,  less  glorious  than  himself. 
But,  while  we  gaze,  'tis  gone !     And  now  he  shines 
Like  burnished  silver ;  all,  below,  the  Night's. 

Such  moments  are  most  precious.     Yet  there  are 
Others,  that  follow  fast,  more  precious  still ; 
When  once  again  he  changes,  once  again 
Clothing  himself  in  grandeur  all  his  own ; 
When,  like  a  ghost,  shadowless,  colourless, 
He  melts  away  into  the  Heaven  of  Heavens ; 
Himself  alone  revealed,  all  lesser  things 
As  though  they  were  not ! 

P.  224,  1.  14. 

That  dungeon-fortress 

The  Castle  of  Joux  in  Franche-Comte'. 

P.  224,  1.  14. 

never  to  be  named, 

See  the  Odyssey,  lib.  xix.  v.  597,  and  lib.  xxiii.  v.  19. 


396  ITALY. 

P.  225,  1.  10. 

As  now  thy  once  luxuriant  bowers,  RIPAILLE  ; 

The  retreat  of  AMADEUS,  the  first  Duke  of  Savoy.  Voltaire  thus 
addresses  it  from  his  windows : 

Ripaille,  je  te  vois.    O  bizarre  Am6d6e,'  Sfe. 
The  seven  towers  are  no  longer  a  land-mark  to  the  voyager. 

P.  225, 1.  14. 
Nightly  called  up  the  Shade  of  ancient  ROME  ; 

He  has  given  us  a  very  natural  account  of  his  feelings  at  the  con- 
clusion of  his  long  labour  there:  "  It  was  on  the  night  of  the  27th  of 
June,  1797,  between  the  hours  of  eleven  and  twelve,  that  I  wrote  the 
last  lines  of  the  last  page  in  a  summer-house  in  my  garden.  After 
laying  down  my  pen,  I  took  several  turns  in  a  berceau  or  covered  walk 
of  acacias,  which  commands  the  lake  and  the  mountains ;  and  I  will 
not  dissemble  my  joy.  But,  when  I  reflected  that  I  had  taken  an 
everlasting  leave  of  an  old  and  agreeable  companion,"  $c. 

There  must  always  be  something  melancholy  in  the  moment  of  sepa- 
ration, as  all  have  more  or  less  experienced ;  none  more  perhaps  than 
Cowper:  —  "And  now,"  says  he,  "I  have  only  to  regret  that  my 
pleasant  work  is  ended.  To  the  illustrious  Greek  I  owe  the  smooth 
and  easy  flight  of  many  thousand  hours.  He  has  been  my  companion 
at  home  and  abroad,  in  the  study,  in  the  garden,  and  in  the  field ;  and 
no  measure  of  success,  let  my  labours  succeed  as  they  may,  will  ever 
compensate  to  me  the  loss  of  the  innocent  luxury  that  I  have  enjoyed, 
as  a  Translator  of  Homer." 

P.  228, 1.  32. 

A  temple,  sacred  to  Humanity  ! 

In  the  course  of  the  year  they  entertain  from  thirty  to  thirty-five 
thousand  travellers. — Le  Pere  BISELX,  Prieur. 

P.  230,  1.  31. 

Whose  can  it  be,  but  his  who  never  erred  f 

Alluding  to  Barri,  a  dog  of  great  renown  in  his  day.  His  skin  is 
stuffed,  and  preserved  in  the  Museum  of  Berne. 


ITALY.  397 

P.  231,  1.  7. 
ST.  BETTNO'S  once — 

The  Grande  Chartreuse.  It  was  indebted  for  its  foundation  to  a 
miracle ;  as  every  guest  may  learn  there  from  a  little  book  that  lies  on 
the  table  in  his  cell,  the  cell  allotted  to  him  by  the  fathers. 

"  In  this  year  the  Canon  died,  and,  as  all  believed,  in  the  odour  of 
sanctity :  for  who  in  his  life  had  been  so  holy,  in  his  death  so  happy  ? 
But  false  are  the  judgments  of  men,  as  the  event  showeth.  For  when 
the  hour  of  his  funeral  had  arrived,  when  the  mourners  had  entered 
the  church,  the  bearers  set  down  the  bier,  and  every  voice  was  lifted  up 
in  the  Miserere,  suddenly,  and  as  none  knew  how,  the  lights  were  ex- 
tinguished, the  anthem  stopt !  A  darkness  succeeded,  a  silence  as  of 
the  grave ;  and  these  words  came  in  sorrowful  accents  from  the  lips 
of  the  dead.  '  I  am  summoned  before  a  Just  God !  -  -  -  A  Just  God 
judgeth  me ! I  am  condemned  by  a  Just  God !' " 

"  In  the  church,"  says  the  legend,  "there  stood  a  young  man  with 
his  hands  clasped  in  prayer,  who  from  that  time  resolved  to  withdraw 
into  the  desert.  It  was  he  whom  we  now  invoke  as  St.  Bruno." 

P.  231,  1.  14. 

Glided  along  those  aisles  interminable, 

Us  ont  la  meme  longueur  que  1'eglise  de  Saint-Pierre  de  Rome,  et  ils 
renferment  quatre  cent  cellules. 

P.  231,  1.  18. 

that  house  so  rich  of  old, 
So  courteous. 

The  words  of  Ariosto. 

una  badia 
Ricca  ^— —  e  cortesi  a  chiunque  vi  venia. — 

P.  231,  1.  19. 

and,  by  two  that  passed  that  way, 
ARIOSTO  and  MILTON.     Milton  was  there  at  the  fall  of  the  leafc 

P.  232,  1.  9. 

He  was  nor  dull  nor  contradictory, 

Not  that  I  felt  the  confidence  of  Erasmus,  when,  on  his  way  from 
Paris  to  Turin,  he  encountered  the  dangers  of  Mont  Cenis  in  1507 ; 

34 


ITALY. 

•when,  regardless  of  torrent  and  precipice,  he  versified  as  he  went ; 
composing  a  poem  on  horseback,*  and  writing  it  down  at  intervals  as 
he  sat  in  his  saddle  f  —  an  example,  I  imagine,  followed  by  few. 

Much  indeed  of  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  as  the  Author  assured 
me,  was  conceived  and  executed  in  like  manner  on  his  journey  through 
Greece;  but  the  work  was  performed  in  less  unfavourable  circum- 
stances ;  for,  if  his  fits  of  inspiration  were  stronger,  he  travelled  on 
surer  ground. 

P.  234,  1.  22. 

And  gathered  from  above,  below,  around, 

The  Author  of  Lalla  Rookh,  a  Poet  of  such  singular  felicity  as  to 
give  a  lustre  to  all  he  touches,  has  written  a  song  on  this  subject,  called 
the  Crystal-hunters. 

P.  234,  1.  23. 
Once,  nor  long  before, 

M.  Ebel  mentions  an  escape  almost  as  miraculous:  "L'an  1790, 
Christian  Boren,  propri4taire  de  1'auberge  du  Grindelwald,  cut  le  mal- 
heur  de  se  jeter  dans  une  fente  du  glacier,  en  le  traversant  avec  un 
troupeau  de  moutons  qu'il  ramenoit  des  paturages  de  Baniseck.  Heu- 
reusement  qu'il  tomba  dans  le  voisinage  du  grand  torrent  qui  coule 
dans  1'inte'rieur,  il  en  suivit  le  lit  par-dessous  les  voutes  de  glace,  et 
arriva  au  pied  du  glacier  avec  un  bras  casse".  Get  homme  est  actuelle- 
ment  encore  en  vie." — Manuel  du  Voyageur. 

P.  238,  1.  2. 
a  wondrous  monument 

Almost  every  mountain  of  any  rank  or  condition  has  such  a  bridge. 
The  most  celebrated  in  this  country  is  on  the  Swiss  side  of  St.  Gothard. 

P.  242,  1.  7. 

And  shot  the  apple  from  the  youngling's  head, 

A  tradition.  —  Gesler  said  to  him,  when  it  was  over,  '  You  had  a 
second  arrow  in  your  belt.  What  was  it  for?' — 'To  kill  you,' he  re- 
plied, 'if  I  had  killed  my  son.'  There  is  a  monument  in  the  market- 
place of  Altorf  to  consecrate  the  spot. 

*  '  Carmen  equestre,  vel  potius  Alpestre.'  —  ERASMUS. 
f  '  Nolens  in  charta  super  sellam.' — Idem. 


ITALY.  399 

P.  242,  1.  11. 

Tho1,  such  the  grasp,  not  even  in  death  relinquished. 
The  Eagle  and  Child  is  a  favourite  sign  in  many  parts  of  Europe. 

P.  243,  1.  27. 
gazing  and  shuddering  on 

1  J'aime  beaucoup  ce  tournoiement,  pourvu  que  je  sois  en  sureteV — 
J.  J.  ROUSSEAU,  Les  Confessions,  1.  IT. 

P.  243,  1.  30. 
just  where  the  Abbot  fell, 

'  Ou  il  y  a  environ  dix  ans,  que  1'Abbe"  de  St.  Maurice,  Mons.  Coca- 
trix,  a  Ste"  pr4cipite"  avec  sa  voiturc,  ses  chevaux,  sa  cuisiniere,  et  son 
cocher.'  —  Descript.  du  Valais. 

P.  244,  1.  10. 

/  love  to  sail  along  the  LABIAN  Lake 
Originally  thus : 

I  love  to  sail  along  the  LARIAN  Lake 

Under  the  shore  —  though  not,  where'er  he  dwelt, 

To  visit  FLINT  —  not,  where'er  he  dwelt, 

Whate'er  his  humour ;  for  from  cliff  to  cliff, 

From  glade  to  glade,  adorning  as  he  went, 

He  moved  at  pleasure,  many  a  marble  porch, 

Dorian,  Corinthian,  rising  at  his  call 

P.  244, 1.  18. 

Though  to  fare  worse, 

His  Peninsula  he  calls  '  the  eye  of  Peninsulas  ;'  and  it  is  beautiful. 
But,  whatever  it  was,  who  could  pass  it  by  ?  Napoleon,  in  the  career 
of  victory,  turned  aside  to  see  it. 

Of  his  villa  there  is  now  no  more  remaining  than  of  his  old  pinnace, 
which  had  weathered  so  many  storms,  and  which  he  consecrated  at  last 
as  an  ez-voto. 


400  ITALY. 

P.  248,  1.  12. 

Crossing  the  rough  BENACUS. 

The  lake  of  Catullus ;  and  now  called  II  lago  di  Garda.  Its  waves, 
in  the  north,  lash  the  mountains  of  the  Tyrol ;  and  it  was  there,  at  the 
little  village  of  Limone,  that  Hofer  embarked,  when  in  the  hands  of  the 
enemy  and  on  his  way  to  Mantua,  where,  in  the  court-yard  of  the 
citadel,  he  was  shot  as  a  traitor.  Less  fortunate  than  Tell,  yet  not  less 
illustrious,  he  was  watched  by  many  a  mournful  eye  as  he  came  down 
the  lake  ;  and  his  name  will  live  long  in  the  heroic  songs  of  his  country. 
He  lies  buried  at  Innspruck  in  the  church  of  the  Holy  Cross ;  and 
the  statue  on  his  tomb  represents  him  in  his  habit  as  he  lived  and  as 
he  died. 

P.  248,  1.  27. 
Before  the  great  MASTINO, 

Mastino  de  la  Scala,  the  Lord  of  Verona.  Cortusio,  the  ambassador 
and  historian  saw  him  so  surrounded. 

This  house  had  always  been  open  to  the  unfortunate.  In  the  days 
of  Can  Grande,  all  were  welcome ;  Poets,  Philosophers,  Artists,  War- 
riors. Each  had  his  apartment,  each  a  separate  table;  and  at  the 
hour  of  dinner  musicians  and  jesters  went  from  room  to  room.  Dante, 
as  we  learn  from  himself,  found  an  asylum  there. 

"  Lo  primo  tuo  rifugio,  e'l  primo  ostello 
Sara  la  cortesia  del  gran  Lombardo, 
Che'n  su  la  scala  porta  il  santo  ucello." 

Their  tombs  in  the  public  street  carry  us  back  into  the  times  of 
barbarous  virtue ;  *  nor  less  so  do  those  of  the  Carrara  Princes  at 
Padua,  though  less  singular  and  striking  in  themselves.  Francis 
Carrara,  the  Elder,  used  often  to  visit  Petrarch  in  his  small  house  at 
Arqn&,  and  followed  him  on  foot  to  his  grave. 

P.  249, 1.  24. 
My  omelet,  and  a  flagon  of  hill-wine, 

Originally  thus : 

My  omelet,  and  a  trout,  that,  as  the  sun 
Shot  his  last  ray  through  Zanga's  leafy  grove, 
Leaped  at  a  golden  fly,  had  happily 
Fled  from  all  eyes ; 

*  Two  of  these  are  nearly  alike,  and  relate  the  same  story.  Above  there  is  the 
•orereign  on  his  war-horse  in  full  panoply  ;  and  below  he  lies  on  the  bed  of  death. 


ITALY.  401 

Zanga  is  the  name  of  a  beautiful  villa  near  Bergamo,  in  which  Tasso 
finished  his  tragedy  of  Torrismondo.  It  still  belongs  to  his  family. 

P.  249,  1.  29. 
Bartering  my  bread  and  salt  for  empty  praise. 

After  Kne  31,  in  the  MS. 

That  evening,  tended  on  with  verse  and  song, 
I  closed  my  eyes  in  heaven,  but  not  to  sleep  ; 
A  Columbine,  my  nearest  neighbour  there, 
In  her  great  bounty,  at  the  midnight-hour 
Bestowing  on  the  world  two  Harlequins. 

Chapelle  and  Bachaumont  fared  no  better  at  Salon,  "a  cause  d'une 
comedienne,  qui  s'avisa  d'accoucher  de  deux  petits  come"diens. 

P.  250,  1.  6. 

And  shall  I  sup  where  JULIET  at  the  Masque 
Originally  thus : 

And  shall  I  sup  where  JULIET  at  the  Masque 
First  saw  and  loved,  and  now,  by  him  who  came 
That  night  a  stranger,  sleeps  from  age  to  age  ? 
An  old  Palace  of  the  Cappelletti,  with  its  uncouth  balcony  and 
irregular  windows,  is  still  standing  in  a  lane  near  the  Market-place ; 
and  what  Englishman  can  behold  it  with  indifference  ? 

When  we  enter  Verona,  we  forget  ourselves,  and  are  almost  inclined 
to  say  with  Dante, 

"  Vieni  a  veder  Montecchi,  e  Cappelletti." 

P.  250,  1.  8. 

Such  questions  hourly  do  I  ask  myself; 

It  has  been  observed  that  in  Italy  the  memory  sees  more  than  the  eye. 
Scarcely  a  stone  is  turned  up  that  has  not  some  historical  association, 
ancient  or  modern ;  that  may  not  be  said  to  have  gold  under  it. 

P.  250,  1.  10. 
'ToFerrara'— 

Fallen  as  she  is,  she  is  still,  as  in  the  days  of  Tassoni, 
"  La  gran  donna  del  Po." 

34*  3A 


402  ITALY. 

P.  250,  1.  21. 

Would  they  had  loved  thee  less,  or  feared  thee  more  ! 
From  the  sonnet  of  Filicaja.     "  Italia !  Italia!  "  &c. 

P.  250,  1.  22. 

Twice  hast  thou  lived  already  ; 
Twice  shone  among  the  nations  of  the  world 

All  our  travellers,  from  Addison  downward,  have  diligently  explored 
the  monuments  of  her  former  existence;  while  those  of  her  latter 
have,  comparatively  speaking,  escaped  observation.  If  I  cannot  supply 
the  deficiency,  I  will  not  follow  their  example ;  and  happy  should  I  be, 
if  by  an  intermixture  of  verse  and  prose,  of  prose  illustrating  the  verse 
and  verse  embellishing  the  prose,  I  could  furnish  my  countrymen  011 
their  travels  with  a  pocket-companion. 

P.  250,  1.  28. 
If  but  a  sinew  vibrate, 

There  is  a  French  proverb  that  must  now  and  then  occur  to  an 
observer  in  the  present  age :  Beaucoup  de  mal,  peu  de  bruit ;  Beau- 
coup  de  bruit,  peu  de  mal. 

P.  253,  1.  19. 

She  was  walled  up  within  the  Castle-wall. 
Murato  was  a  technical  word  for  this  punishment. 

P.  254,  1.  1. 
Issuing  forth, 

An  old  huntsman  of  the  family  met  her  in  the  haze  of  the  morning, 
and  never  went  out  again. 

She  is  still  known  by  the  name  of  Madonna  Bianca. 

P.  254,  1.  25. 

Still  glowing  with  the  richest  hues  of  art, 

Several  were  painted  by  Giorgione  and  Titian ;  as,  for  instance,  the 
Ca'  Soranzo,  the  Ca'  Grimani,  and  the  Fondaco  de'  Tedeschi.  Great 
was  their  emulation,  great  their  rivalry,  if  we  may  judge  from  an 


ITALY.  403 

anecdote  related  by  Vesari ;  and  with  what  interest  must  they  have 
been  observed  in  their  progress,  as  they  stood  at  -work  on  their  scaffolds, 
by  those  who  were  passing  under  them  by  land  and  by  water !  * 

P.  255,  1.  1. 
the  tower  of  Ezzelin  — 

Now  an  observatory.  On  the  wall  there  is  a  long  inscription :  '  Piis 
carcerem  adspergite  lacrymis,'  &c. 

Ezzelino  is  seen  by  Dante  in  the  river  of  blood. 

P.  255,  1.  4. 
Him  or  his  horoscope  ; 

Bonatti  was  the  great  astrologer  of  that  day;  and  all  the  little 
Princes  of  Italy  contended  for  him.  It  was  from  the  top  of  the  tower 
of  Forli  that  he  gave  his  signals  to  Guido  Novello.  At  the  first  touch 
of  a  bell  the  Count  put  on  his  armour ;  at  the  second  he  mounted  his 
horse,  and  at  the  third  marched  out  to  battle.  His  victories  were 
ascribed  to  Bonatti ;  and  not  perhaps  without  reason.  How  many 
triumphs  were  due  to  the  soothsayers  of  old  Rome ! 

P.  255,  1.  10. 
Careless  and  full  of  mirth; 

"  Douze  personnes,  tant  acteurs  qu'actrices,  un  souffleur,  un  machi- 
niste,  un  gard  du  magasin,  des  enfans  de  tout  age,  des  chiens,  des  chats, 
des  singes,  des  perroquets  ;  c'e"toit  1'arche  de  Noe".  —  Ma  predilection 
pour  les  soubrettes  m'arreta  sur  Madame  Baccherini." — GOLDONI. 

P.  255,  1.  18. 
the  lagging  mules  ; 
The  passage-boats  are  drawn  \ip  and  down  the  Brenta. 

P.  255,  1.  22. 
That  child  of  fun  and  frolic,  Arlecchino. 

A  pleasant  instance  of  his  wit  and  agility  was  exhibited  some  years 
ago  on  the  stage  at  Venice. 

*  Frederic  Zucchero,  in  a  drawing  which  I  have  seen,  has  introduced  his  brother 
Taddeo  as  so  employed  at  Rome  on  the  Palace  Mattel,  and  Raphael  and  Michael 
Angelo  as  standing  among  the  spectators  below. 


404  ITALY. 

"  The  stutterer  was  in  an  agony ;  the  word  was  inexorable.  It  was 
to  no  purpose  that  Harlequin  suggested  another  and  another.  At 
length,  in  a  fit  of  despair,  he  pitched  his  head  full  in  the  dying  man's 
stomach,  and  the  word  bolted  out  of  his  mouth  to  the  most  distant  part 
of  the  house." — See  MOORE'S  View  of  Society  in  Italy. 

He  is  well  described  by  Marmontel  in  the  Encyclopedic. 

"  Personnage  de  la  come"die  italienne.  Le  caractere  distinctif  de 
1'ancienne  come'die  italienne  est  de  jouer  des  ridicules,  non  pas  person- 
nels, mais  nationaux.  C'est  une  imitation  grotesque  des  mceurs  des 
diffe"rentes  villes  d'ltalie ;  et  chacune  d'elles  est  repre'sentee  par  un 
personnage  qui  est  toujours  le  meme.  Pan  talon  est  ve"nitien,  le  Docteur 
est  bolonois,  Scapin  est  napolitain,  et  Arlequin  est  bergamasque. 
Celui-ci  est  d'une  singularity  qui  merite  d'etre  observe'e ;  et  il  a  fait 
long-temps  les  plaisirs  de  Paris,  joue*  par  trois  acteurs  ce"lebres,  Domi- 
nique, Thomassin,  et  Carlin.  II  est  vraisemblable  qu'un  esclave  africain 
fut  le  premier  modele  de  ce  personnage.  Son  caractere  est  un  melange 
d'ignorance,  de  naivete",  dresprit,  de  betisse  et  de  grace :  c'est  un  espece 
d'homme  e"bauche~,  un  grand  enfant,  qui  a  des  lueurs  de  raison  et  d'in- 
telligence,  et  dbnt  toutes  les  me"prises  ou  les  maladresses  ont  quelque 
chose  de  piquant.  Ee  vrai  modele  de  son  jeu  est  la  souplesse,  I'agilite', 
la  gentillesse  d'un  jeune  chat,  avec  une  e"corce  de  grossierete"  qui  rend 
son  action  plus  plaisante ;  son  role  est  celui  d'un  valet  patient,  fidele, 
cre"dule,  gourmand,  toujours  amoureux,  toujours  dans  1'embarras,  ou 
pour  son.  maitre,  ou  pour  lui-meme ;  qui  s'afflige,  qui  se  console  avec  la 
facility  d'un  enfant,  et  dont  la  douleur  est  aussi  amusante  que  la  joie." 


P.  256,  1.  20. 
A  vast  Metropolis, 

"  I  love,"  says  a  traveller,  "  to  contemplate,  as  I  float  along,  that 
multitude  of  palaces  and  churches,  which  are  congregated  and  pressed 
as  on  a  vast  raft." — "And  who  can  forget  his  walk  through  the  Mer- 
ceria,  where  the  nightingales  give  you  their  melody  from  shop  to  shop, 
so  that,  shutting  your  eyes,  you  would  think  yourself  in  some  forest- 
glade,  when  indeed  you  are  all  the  while  in  the  middle  of  the  sea  ? 
Who  can  forget  his  prospect  from  the  great  tower,  which  once,  when 
gilt,  and  when  the  sun  struck  upon  it,  was  to  be  descried  by  ships  afar 
off;  or  his  visit  to  St.  Mark's  church,  where  you  see  nothing,  tread  on 
nothing,  but  what  is  precious ;  the  floor  all  agate,  jasper ;  the  roof, 
mosaic ;  the  aisle  hung  with  the  banners  of  the  subject  cities ;  the  front 


ITALY.  405 

and  its  five  domes  affecting  you  as  the  work  of  some  unknown  people  ? 
Yet  all  this  will  presently  pass  away ;  the  waters  will  close  over  it ;  and 
they  that  come,  row  about  in  vain  to  determine  exactly  where  it  stood." 

P.  256,  1.  22. 

A  scene  of  light  and  glory,  a  dominion 
That  has  endured  the  longest  among  men. 

A  Poet  of  our  own  Country,  Mr.  Wordsworth,  has  written  a  noble 
sonnet  on  the  extinction  of  the  Venetian  Republic. 

"  Once  did  she  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in  fee,  "  &c. 

P.  256,  1.  26. 
Want  led  to  Enterprise; 

"  H  fallut  subsister ;  ils  tirerent  leur  subsistance  de  tout  I'univers." 
—  MONTESQUIEU. 

P.  258, 1.  16. 

and  at  once  she  fell ;  • 

There  was,  in  my  time,  another  republic,  a  place  of  refuge  for  the 
unfortunate,  and,  not  only  at  its  birth,  but  to  the  last  hour  of  its  ex- 
istence, which  had  established  itself  in  like  manner  among  the  waters, 
and  which  shared  the  same  fate; — a  republic,  the  citizens  of  which, 
if  not  more  enterprising,  were  far  more  virtuous,*  and  could  say  also 
to  the  great  nations  of  the  world,  '  Your  countries  were  acquired  by 
conquest  or  by  inheritance ;  but  ours  is  the  work  of  our  own  hands. 
We  renew  it,  day  by  day ;  and,  but  for  us,  it  might  cease  to  be  to- 
morrow! ' — a  republic,  in  its  progress,  for  ever  warred  on  by  the  ele- 
ments, and  how  often  by  men  more  cruel  than  they;  yet  constantly 
cultivating  the  arts  of  peace,  and,  short  as  was  the  course  allotted  to 
it  (only  three  times  the  life  of  man,  according  to  the  Psalmist)  produc- 
ing, amidst  all  its  difficulties,  not  only  the  greatest  seamen,  but  the 


*  It  is  related  that  Spinola  and  Richardot,  when  on  their  way  to  negotiate  a  treaty 
at  the  Hague  in  1608,  saw  eight  or  ten  persons  land  from  a  little  boat,  and,  sitting 
down  on  the  grass,  make  a  meal  of  bread  and  cheese,  and  beer.  'Who  are  these 
travellers?'  said  the  Ambassadors  to  a  peasant. — 'They  are  the  deputies  from  the 
states,'  he  answered, '  our  sovereign  lords  tind  masters.' — '  We  must  make  peace,'  they 
cried.  'These  are  not  men  to  be  conquered.'— VOLTAIRE. 


406  ITALY. 

greatest  lawyers,  the  greatest  physicians,  the  most  accomplished 
scholars,  the  most  skilful  painters,  and  statesmen  as  wise  as  they  were 
just.* 

P.  259,  1.  22. 
Playing  at  MOKA. 

A  national  game  of  great  antiquity,  and  most  probably  the  '  micare 
digitis '  of  the  Romans.  It  is  an  old  observation  that  few  things  are  so 
lasting  as  the  games  of  the  young.  They  go  down  from  one  generation 
to  another 

P.  259,  1.  23. 

With  Punchinello. — 'Tis  a  game  to  strike 
Originally  thus : 

With  Punchinello,  crying  as  in  wrath 

"  Tre !  Quattro !  Cinque !" — 'Tis  a  game  to  strike 

P.  261,  1.  10. 

Mishap  passed  o'er  thee  like  a  summer-cloud. 

When  we  wish  to  know  if  a  man  may  be  accounted  happy,  we  should 
perhaps  inquire,  not  whether  he  is  prosperous  or  unprosperous,  but 
how  much  he  is  affected  by  little  things  —  by  such  as  hourly  assail  us 
in  the  commerce  of  life,  and  are  no  more  to  be  regarded  than  the 
buzzings  and  stingings  of  a  summer-fly. 

P.  262,  1.  7. 

(The  brass  is  gone,  the  porphyry  remains,) 

They  were  placed  in  the  floor  as  memorials.  The  brass  was  engraven 
with  the  words  addressed  by  the  Pope  to  the  Emperor,  '  Super  aspidem 
et  basilisnum  ambulabis,'  &c.  Thou  shalt  tread  upon  the  asp  and  the 
basilisk :  the  lion  and  the  dragon  shalt  thou  trample  under  foot. 

*  What  names,  for  instance,  are  more  illustrious  than  those  of  Barneveldt  and  I)e 
Witt?  But  when  there  were  Buch  mothers,  there  might  well  be  such  sons. 

When  Reinier  Barneveldt  was  condemned  to  die  for  an  attempt  to  avenge  his  fa- 
ther's death  by  assassination,  his  mother  threw  herself  at  the  feet  of  Prince  Maurice. 
'  You  did  not  deign,'  said  he, '  to  ask  for  your  husband's  life;  and  why  ask  for  your 
son's  ?'— '  My  husband,'  she  replied,  '  was  innocent ;  but  my  son  is  guilty.' 

De  Witt  was  at  once  a  model  for  the  greatest  and  the  least.  Careless  as  he  was  of 
his  life,  when  in  the  discharge  of  his  duty,  he  was  always  careful  of  his  health  ;  and 
to  the  question,  how  he  was  able  to  transact  such  a  multiplicity  of  affairs,  he  would 
answer,  "By  doing  only  one  thing  at  a  time." 


ITALY.  407 

P.  262,  1.  10. 
Of  the  proud  Pontiff — 

Alexander  III.  He  fled  in  disguise  to  Venice,  and  is  said  to  have 
passed  the  first  night  on  the  steps  of  San  Salvatore.  The  entrance  is 
from  the  Merceria,  near  the  foot  of  the  Rialto ;  and  it  is  thus  recorded, 
under  his  escutcheon,  in  a  small  tablet  at  the  door.  '  Alexandro  III. 
Pont.  Max.  pernoctanti.' 

P.  262,  1.  21. 

Surely  those  aged  limbs  have  need  of  rest !  " 
See  Geoffry  de  Villehardouin,  in  Script.  Byzant.  i.  xx. 

P.  262,  1.  31. 
resounding  with  their  feet, 

See  Petrarch's  description  of  them  and  of  the  tournament. 
Rer.  Senil.  1.  iv.  ep.  2. 

P.  263,  1.  10. 
Knights  of  all  nations, 

Not  less  splendid  were  the  tournaments  of  Florence  in  the  Place  of 
Santa  Croce.  To  those  which  were  held  there  in  February  and  June, 
1468,  we  are  indebted  for  two  of  the  most  celebrated  poems  of  that  age, 
the  Giostra  of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  by  Luca  Pulci,  and  the  Giostra  of 
Giuliano  de'  Medici,  by  Politian. 

P.  263,  1.  11. 

some  of  fair  renown 
From  ENGLAND, 

"Recenti  victoria  exultantes,"  says  Petrarch;  alluding,  no  doubt,  to 
the  favourable  issue  of  the  war  in  France.  This  festival  began  on  tho 
4th  of  August,  1364. 

P.  263,  1.  22. 

And  lo,  the  madness  of  the  Carnival, 

Among  those  the  most  followed,  there  was  always  a  mask  in  a 
magnificent  habit,  relating  marvellous  adventures  and  calling  himself 
Messer  Marco  Millioni.  Millioni  was  the  name  given  by  his  fellow- 


408  ITALY. 

citizens  in  his  life-time  to  the  great  traveller,  Marco  Polo.  '  I  have 
seen  him  so  described,'  says  Ramusio,  'in  the  Records  of  the  Republic ; 
and  his  house  has,  from  that  time  to  this,  been  called  La  Corte  del 
Millioni,  the  palace  of  the  rich  man,  the  millionnaire.  It  is  on  the  canal 
of  S.  Giovanni  Chrisostomo ;  and,  as  long  as  he  lived,  was  much  resorted 
to  by  the  curious  and  the  learned. 

P.  263,  1.  27. 
the  Archangel, 

"  In  atto  di  dar  la  benedittione,"  says  Sansovino ;  and  performing 
the  same  office  as  the  Triton  on  the  tower  of  the  "Winds  at  Athens. 

P.  264,  1.  5. 
the  marble  stairs 

Now  called  La  Scala  de'  Giganti.     The  colossal  statues  were  placed 
there  in  1566. 

P.  264,  1.  10. 

A  brief  inscription  on  the  Doge's  chair 

Led  to  another  on  the  wall  as  brief; 

« Marin  Faliero  dalla  bella  moglie ;  altri  la  gode  ed  egli  la  mantiene.' 
*  Locus  Marini  Faletri,  decapitati  pro  criminibus.' 

P.  264,  1. 18. 

CAHEAHA 
Francis  Carrara  II. 

P.  264,  1.  23. 
CAKMAGNOLA. — 

"II  Conte,  entrando  in  prigioni,  disse:  Vedo  bene  ch'  io  Bon  morto, 
e  trasse  un  grande  sospiro." — M.  SANUTO 

P.  265,  1.  17. 
the  Canal  OEFANO, 
A  deep  channel  behind  the  island  of  S.  Giorgio  Maggiore. 

P.  265,  1.  22. 

Yet  what  so  gay  as  VENICE  ? 

In  a  letter,  written  by  Francesco  Priscianese,  a  Florentine,  there  is 
an  interesting  account  of  an  entertainment  given  in  that  city  by  Titian. 


ITALY.  409 

"I  was  invited,"  says  he,  "to  celebrate  the  first  of  August  (ferrare 
Agosto)  in  a  beautiful  garden  belonging  to  that  Great  Painter,*  a  man 
who  by  his  courtesies  could  give  a  grace  and  a  charm  to  anything 
festive ;  -j-  and  there,  when  I  arrived,  I  found  him  in  company  with  some 
of  the  most  accomplished  persons  then  in  Venice ;  together  with  three 
of  my  countrymen,  Pietro  Aretino,  Nardi  the  historian,  J  and  Sanso- 
vino  so  celebrated  as  a  sculptor  and  an  architect. 

"Though  the  place  was  shady,  the  sun  was  still  powerful:  and, 
before  we  sat  down  at  table,  we  passed  our  time  in  contemplating  the 
excellent  pictures  with  which  the  house  was  filled,  and  in  admiring  the 
order  and  beauty  of  the  garden,  which,  being  on  the  sea  and  at  the 
northern  extremity  of  Venice,  looked  directly  on  the  little  island  of 
Murano  and  on  others  not  less  beautiful. 

"Great  indeed  was  our  admiration,  great  our  enjoyment,  wherever 
we  turned ;  and  no  sooner  did  the  sun  go  down,  than  the  water  was 
covered  with  gondolettas  adorned  with  ladies  and  resounding  with  the 
richest  harmonies,  vocal  and  instrumental,  which  continued  till  mid- 
night and  delighted  us  beyond  measure,  while  we  sat  and  supped, 
regaling  ourselves  with  everything  that  was  most  exquisite." 

P.  265,  1.  27. 
night  and  day 

'How  fares  it  with  your  world?'  says  his  Highness  the  Devil  to 
QUEVEDO,  on  their  first  interview  in  the  lower  regions.  '  Do  I  prosper 
there?' — 'Much  as  usual,  I  believe.' — 'But  tell  me  truly.  How  is  my 
good  city  of  Venice  ?  Flourishing  ? ' — '  More  than  ever.' — '  Then  I  am 
under  no  apprehension.  All  must  go  well.' 

*  Great  as  he  was,  we  know  little  of  his  practice.  Falma  the  Elder,  who  studied 
under  him,  used  to  say  that  he  finished  more  with  the  finger  than  the  pencil. — 
Boscmm. 

t  His  scholar  Tintoret,  if  so  much  could  not  he  said  of  him,  would  now  and  then 
enliven  the  conversation  at  his  table  with  a  sally  that  was  not  soon  forgotten. 
Sitting  one  day  there  with  his  friend  Bassan,  ••  I  tell  thee  what,  Giacomo,'1  said  lie: 
"if  I  had  thy  colouring  and  thou  hadst  my  design,  the  Titians  and  Correggios  and 
Raphaels  should  not  approach  us." — VERCI. 

I  Nardi  lived  long,  if  not  so  long  as  Titian.  Writing  to  Varchi  on  the  13th  of 
July,  1555,  he  says :  "  I  am  still  sound,  though  feeble ;  having  on  the  twenty-first  of 
the  present  month  to  begin  to  climb  with  my  staff  the  steep  ascent  of  the  eightieth 
year  of  this  my  misspent  life." — TIRABOSCHI. 

35  SB 


410  ITALY. 

P.  266,  1.  1. 

'  Who  were  the  Six  we  supped  with  Yesternight  f ' 
An  allusion  to  the  supper  in  Candide :  c.  xxvi. 

P.  266,  1.  4. 

'  Who  answered  me  just  now  ? 
See  Schiller's  Ghost-seer,  c.  i. 

P.  266,  1.  8. 
'•But  who  moves  there,  alone  among  them  all?' 

See  the  history  of  Bragadino,  the  Alchymist,  as  related  by  Daru. 
Hist,  de  Venise,  c.  28. 

The  person  that  follows  him  was  yet  more  extraordinary,  and  is  said 
to  have  appeared  there  in  1687.  See  Hermippus  Redivivus. 

"  Those,  who  have  experienced  the  advantages  which  all  strangers 
enjoy  in  that  City,  will  not  be  surprised  that  one  who  went  by  the  name 
of  Signor  Gualdi  was  admitted  into  the  best  company,  though  none 
knew  who  or  what  he  was.  He  remained  there  some  months ;  and 
three  things  were  remarked  concerning  him  —  that  he  had  a  small  but 
inestimable  collection  of  pictures,  which  he  readily  showed  to  anybody 
—  that  he  spoke  on  every  subject  with  such  a  mastery  as  astonished 
all  who  heard  him  —  and  that  he  never  wrote  or  received  any  letter, 
never  required  any  credit  or  used  any  bills  of  exchange,,  but  paid  for 
everything  in  ready  money,  and  lived  respectably,  though  not  splendidly. 

"This  gentleman  being  one  day  at  a  coffee-house,  a  Venetian  noble- 
man, who  was  an  excellent  judge  of  pictures,  and  who  had  heard  of 
Signor  Gualdi's  collection,  expressed  a  desire  to  see  them ;  and  his 
request  was  instantly  granted.  After  observing  and  admiring  them 
for  some  time,  he  happened  to  cast  his  eyes  over  the  chamber-door, 
where  hung  a  portrait  .of  the  Stranger.  The  Venetian  looked  upon  it, 
and  then  upon  him.  'This  is  your  portrait,  Sir,'  said  he  to  Signor 
Gualdi.  The  other  made  no  answer  but  by  a  low  bow.  'Yet  you 
look,'  he  continued,  'like  a  man  of  fifty ;  and  I  know  this  picture  to  be 
of  the  hand  of  Titian,  who  has  been  dead  one  hundred  and  thirty 
years.  How  is  this  possible  ? '  '  It  is  not  easy,'  said  Signor  Gualdi 
gravely,  '  to  know  all  things  that  are  possible ;  but  there  is  certainly 
no  crime  in  my  being  like  a  picture  of  Titian's.'  The  Venetian 
perceived  that  he  had  given  offence,  and  took  his  leave. 


ITALY.  411 

"  In  the  evening  he  could  not  forbear  mentioning  what  had  passed 
to  some  of  his  friends,  who  resolved  to  satisfy  themselves  the  next  day 
by  seeing  the  picture.  For  this  purpose  they  went  to  the  coffee-house 
about  the  time  that  Signer  Gualdi  was  accustomed  to  come  there ;  and, 
not  meeting  with  him,  inquired  at  his  lodgings,  where  they  learnt  that 
he  had  set  out  an  hour  before  for  Vienna.  This  affair  made  a  great 
stir  at  the  time." 

P.  267,  1.  5. 

All  eye,  all  ear,  no  where  and  every  where, 

A  Frenchman  of  high  rank,  who  had  been  robbed  at  Venice  and  had 
complained  in  conversation  of  the  negligence  of  the  Police,  saying  that 
they  were  vigilant  only  as  spies  on  the  stranger,  was  on  his  way  back 
to  the  Tierra  Firma,  when  his  gondola  stopped  suddenly  in  the  midst 
of  the  waves.  He  inquired  the  reason  ;  and  his  gondoliers  pointed  to 
a  boat  with  a  red  flag,  that  had  just  made  them  a  signal.  It  arrived ; 
and  he  was  called  on  board.  '  You  are  the  Prince  de  Craon  ?  Were 
you  not  robbed  on  Friday  evening? — I  was. —  Of  what?  —  Of  five 
hundred  ducats. —  And  where  were  they  ?  —  In  a  green  purse. — Do  you 
suspect  anybody?  —  I  do,  a  servant. — Would  you  know  him  again?  — 
Certainly.'  The  Interrogator  with  his  foot  turned  aside  an  old  cloak 
that  lay  there ;  and  the  Prince  beheld  his  purse  in  the  hand  of  a  dead 
man.  '  Take  it ;  and  remember  that  none  set  their  feet  again  in  a 
country  where  they  have  presumed  to  doubt  the  wisdom  of  the  govern- 
ment.' 

P.  267,  1.  8. 
Most  present  when  least  thought  of — 

Une  magistrature  terrible,  says  Montesquieu,  une  magistrature 
e"tablie  pour  venger  les  crimes  qu'elle  soup9onne. — Of  the  terror  which 
it  inspired  he  could  speak  from  experience,  if  we  may  believe  one  of 
his  contemporaries. 

In  Italy,  says  Diderot,  he  became  acquainted  with  Lord  Chesterfield, 
and  they  travelled  on  together,  disputing  all  the  way ;  each  asserting 
and  maintaining  as  for  his  life  the  intellectual  superiority  of  his 
countrymen ;  till  at  length  they  came  to  Venice,  where  Montesquieu 
was  prosecuting  his  researches  with  an  ardour  all  his  own,  when  he 
received  a  visit  from  a  stranger,  a  Frenchman  in  a  rusty  garb,  who 
thus  addressed  him.  "You  must  wonder  at  my  intrusion,  sir;  but 
when  the  life  of  a  countryman  is  in  danger,  I  cannot  remain  silent, 


412     .  ITALY. 

cost  me  what  it  may.  In  this  city  many  a  man  has  gone  to  his  grave 
for  one  inconsiderate  word,  and  you  have  uttered  a  thousand.  Nor  is 
it  unknown  to  the  Government  that  you  write ;  and  before  the  sun  goes 
down — But  I  have  said  more  than  enough ;  and  may  it  not  be  too  late ! 
Good  morning  to  you,  sir.  All  I  beg  of  you  in  return  is,  that,  if  you 
see  me  again  under  any  circumstances,  you  will  not  discover  that  you 
have  seen  me  before." 

The  President,  in  the  greatest  consternation,  prepared  for  instant 
flight,  and  had  already  committed  his  papers  to  the  flames,  when 
Chesterfield  appeared  and  began  to  reason  with  him  on  the  subject. 

"What  could  be  his  motive.  Friendship?" — "He  did  not  know 
me." — "  Money  ?  " — "  He  asked  for  none." — "  And  all  then  for  nothing ; 
when,  if  detected,  he  would  be  strangled  on  the  spot! — No,  no,  my 
friend.  He  was  sent,  you  may  rest  assured ;  and  what  would  you  say 
— but  let  me  reflect  a  little  —  and  what  would  you  say,  if  you  were 
indebted  for  this  visit  to  an  Englishman,  a  fellow-traveller  of  yours, 
to  convince  you  by  experience  of  what  by  argument  he  could  never 
convince  you  —  that  one  grain  of  our  common  sense,  meanly  as  you 
may  think  of  it,  is  worth  a  thousand  of  that  Esprit  on  which  you  all 
value  yourselves  so  highly;  for  with  one  grain  of  common  sense " 

"Ah,  villain!"  exclaimed  Montesquieu,  "what  a  trick  you  have 
played  me! — And  my  manuscript!  my  manuscript,  which  I  have 

burnt!" 

P.  269,  1.  1. 

Those  Porches 

'  C'4tait  sous  les  portiques  de  Saint-Marc  que  les  patriciens  se  re"- 
unissaieut  tous  les  jours.  Le  nom  de  cette  promenade  indiquait  sa 
destination ;  on  1'appelait  il  Broglio.'1  DAKU. 

P.  269,  1.  4. 
Silent,  ffrass-ffrown — 

When  a  Despot  lays  his  hand  on  a  Free  City,  how  soon  must  he  make 
the  discovery  of  the  Rustic,  who  bought  Punch  of  the  Puppet-show 
man,  and  complained  that  he  would  not  speak ! 

P.  269,  1.  12. 

/  listened  to  the  venerable  pines 
Then  in  close  converse,  $c. 

I  am  indebted  for  this  thought  to  some  unpublished  travels  by  the 
author  of  Vathek. 


ITALY.  413 

P.  269,  1.  28. 

and  he  sung, 

As  in  the  time  taken  VENICE  was  herself, 

Goldoni,  describing  his  excursion  with  the  Passalacqua,  has  left  us  a 
lively  picture  of  this  class  of  men. 

"  We  were  no  sooner  in  the  middle  of  that  great  lagoon  which  en- 
circles the  City,  than  our  discreet  Gondolier  drew  the  curtain  behind 
us,  and  let  us  float  at  the  will  of  the  waves. — At  length  night  came  on, 
and  we  could  not  tell  where  we  were.  '  What  is  the  hour  ? '  said  I  to 
the  Gondolier.  —  'I  cannot  guess,  Sir;  but,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  it  is 
the  lover's  hour.' — '  Let  us  go  home,'  I  replied ;  and  he  turned  the  prow 
homeward,  singing,  as  he  rowed,  the  twenty-sixth  strophe  of  the  six- 
teenth canto  of  the  Jerusalem  Delivered." 

P.  270,  1.  19. 

Nor  sought  my  threshold, 

At  Venice,  if  you  have  la  riva  in  casa,  you  step  from  your  boat  into 
the  hall.  See  Rose's  Letters  from  the  North  of  Italy. 

P.  270,  1.  21. 

The  young  BIAXCA/OH«<£  her  father's  door, 

Bianca  Capello.  It  had  been  shut,  if  we  may  believe  the  Novelist 
Malespini,  by  a  baker's  boy,  as  he  passed  by  at  day-break ;  and  in  her 
despair  she  fled  with  her  lover  to  Florence,  where  he  fell  by  assassina- 
tion. Her  beauty,  and  her  love-adventure  as  here  related,  her  marriage 
afterwards  with  the  Grand  Duke,  and  that  fatal  banquet  at  which  they 
were  both  poisoned  by  the  Cardinal,  his  brother,  have  rendered  her 
history  a  romance. 

P.  271,  1.  2. 
It  was  St.  Mary's  Eve, 

This  circumstance  took  place  at  Venice  on  the  first  of  February,  the 
eve  of  the  feast  of  the  Purification  of  the  Virgin,  A.  D.  994,  Pietro 
Candiano,  Doge. 

P.  271,  1.  21. 

Such  splendour  or  such  beauty, 

'  E  '1  costume  era,  che  tutte  le  novizze  con  tutta  la  dote  loro  venissero 
alia  detta  chiesa,  dov'  era  il  vescovo  con  tutta  la  chieresia.' 

A.  NAVAGIERO. 

35* 


414  ITALY. 

P.  272,  1.  1. 

Her  veil,  transparent  as  the  gossamer, 

Among  the  Habiti  Antichi,  in  that  admirable  book  of  wood-cuts  as- 
cribed to  Titian  (A.  D.  1590),  there  is  one  entitled  '  Sposa  Venetiana  a 
Castello.'  It  was  taken  from  an  old  painting  in  the  Scuola  di  S.  Gio- 
vanni Evangelista,  and  by  the  Writer  is  believed  to  represent  one  of  the 
Brides  here  described. 

P.  272,  1.  8. 
That  venerable  structure 
San  Pietro  di  Castello,  the  Patriarchal  Church  of  Venice. 

P.  273,  1.  14. 

( Well  are  they  known,  the  galliot  and  the  galley) 
1  Una  galera  e  una  galeotta.' — M.  SANUTO. 

P.  274,  1.  10. 

They  had  surprised  the  Corsairs  where  they  lay 

In  the  lagoons  of  Caorlo.  The  creek  is  still  called  II  Porto  delle 
Donzelle. 

P.  274,  1.  18. 
The  fierceness  of  his  sovl. 
•Paululum  etiam  spirans,'  &c. —  SAILUST.  Bell.  Catil.  59, 

P.  274,  1.  26. 
Laid  at  his  feet ; 

They  are  described  by  Evelyn  and  La  Lande;  and  were  to  be  seen 
in  the  Treasury  of  St.  Mark  very  lately. 

P.  275,  1.  1. 

And  thro'1  the  city,  in  a  stately  barge 

'  Le  quali  con  trionfo  si  conducessero  sopra  una  piatta  pe'  canali  di 
Tenezia  con  suoni  e  canti.' — M.  SANUTO.  .  ; 

P.  275,  1.  12. 

the  Rialto 

An  English  abbreviation.  Rialto  is  the  name,  not  of  the  bridge,  but 
of  the  island  from  which  it  is  called ;  and  the  Venetians  say  llponte  di 
Rialto,  as  we  say  Westminster-bridge. 


ITALY.  415 

In  that  island  is  the  Exchange ;  and  I  have  often  walked  there  as  on 
classic  ground.  In  the  days  of  Antonio  and  Bassanio  it  was  second  to 
none.  "I  sottoportici,"  says  Sansovino,  writing  in  1580,  "  soni  ogni 
giorno  frequentati  da  i  mercatanti  Fiorentini,  Genovesi,  Milancsi,  Spag- 
nuoli,  Turchi,  e  d'  altre  nation!  diverse  del  mondo,  i  quali  vi  concorrono 
in  tanta  copia,  che  questa  piazza  e  annoverata  fra  le  prime  dell'  uiii- 
verso."  It  was  there  that  the  Christian  held  discourse  with  the  Jew  ; 
and  Shylock  refers  to  it  when  he  says, 

"  Signor  Antonio,  many  a  time  and  oft 
In  the  Rial  to  you  have  rated  me — " 

•Andiano  a  Rialto' — 'L'ora  di  Rialto' — were  on  every  tongue,  and 
continue  so  to  the  present  day,  as  we  learn  from  the  comedies  of  Gol- 
doni,  and  particularly  from  his  Mercanti. 

There  is  a  place  adjoining,  called  Rialto  Nuovo ;  and  so  called,  ac« 
cording  to  Sansovini,  "  perche  f  u  fabbricato  dopo  il  vecchio." 

P.  275,  1.  21. 

Ticenty  are  sitting  as  in  judgment  there; 

The  Council  of  Ten  and  the  Giunta,  "nel  quale,"  says  Sanuto,  "fu 
messer  lo  doge."  The  Giunta  at  the  first  examination  consisted  of  ten 
Patricians,  at  the  last  of  twenty. 

This  story  and  the  Tragedy  of  the  Two  Foscari  were  published, 
within  a  few  days  of  each  other,  in  November,  1821. 

P.  277,  1.  22. 

That  maid  at  once  the  noblest,  fairest,  best, 

She  was  a  Contariui ;  a  name  coeval  with  the  Republic  and  illustrated 
by  eight  Doges.  On  the  occasion  of  their  marriage  the  Bucentaur  came 
out  in  its  splendour ;  and  a  bridge  of  boats  was  thrown  across  the  Canal 
Grande  for  the  Bridegroom  and  his  retinue  of  three  hundred  horse. 
Sanuto  dwells  with  pleasure  upon  the  costliness  of  the  dresses  and  the 
magnificence  of  the  processions  by  land  and  water.  The  tournaments 
in  the  place  of  St.  Mark  lasted  three  days,  and  were  attended  by  thirty 
thousand  people. 

P.  278,  1.  15. 

(To  him  whose  name,  among  the  greatest  now, 

Francesco  Sforza.  His  father,  when  at  work  in  the  field,  was 
accosted  by  some  soldiers  and  asked  if  he  would  enlist.  'Let  ine 


416  ITALY. 

throw  my  mattock  on  that  oak,'  he  replied,  'and,  if  it  remains  there, 
I  will.'  It  remained  there ;  and  the  peasant,  regarding  it  as  a  sign, 
enlisted.  He  became  soldier,  general,  prince ;  and  his  grandson,  in 
the  palace  at  Milan,  said  to  Paulus  Jovius,  '  You  behold  these  guards 
and  this  grandeur.  I  owe  everything  to  the  branch  of  an  oak,  the 
branch  that  held  my  grandfather's  mattock.' 

P.  278,  1.  20. 

/  have  transgressed,  offended  wilfully  ; 
It  was  a  high  crime  to  solicit  the  intercession  of  any  Foreign  Prince. 

P.  279,  1.  21. 

Obey.     Thy  Country  wills  it.' 
<Va  e  ubbidisci  a  quello  che  vuole  la  terra,  e  non  cercar  piu  oltre.' 

P.  280,  1.  19. 
the  Invisible  Three 
The  State -Inquisitors.   For  an  account  of  their  authority,  see  page  267. 

P.  281,  1. 19. 

It  found  him  on  his  knees  before  the  Cross, 
He  was  at  Mass. —  M.  SANUTO. 

P.  282,  1.  7. 
He  wrote  it  on  the  tomb 
"Veneno  sublatus."     The  tomb  is  in  the  church  of  St.  Elena. 

P.  282,  1.  9. 

Among  the  debtors  in  his  leger-book 

A  remarkable  instance,  among  others  in  the  annals  of  Venice,  that 
her  princes  were  merchants ;  her  merchants  princes. 

P.  282,  1.  21. 

the  Pisan, 
Count  UGOLINO. — Inferno,  32. 


ITALY.  417 

P.  285,  1.  10. 

And  from  that  hour  have  kindred  spirits  flocked 
'I  visited  once  more,'  says  Alfieri,  'the  tomb  of  our  master  in  love 
the  divine  Petrarch ;  and  there,  as  at  Ravenna,  consecrated  a  day  to 
meditation  and  verse.' 

He  visited  also  the  house ;  and  in  the  Album  there  •wrote  a  sonnet 
•worthy  of  Petrarch  himself. 

"  O  Cameretta,  che  gia  in  te  chiudesti 
duel  Grande  alia  cui  lama  6  angusto  il  mondo,"  &c. 

Alfieri  took  great  pleasure  in  what  he  called  his  poetical  pilgrimages. 
At  the  birth-place  and  the  grave  of  Tasso  he  was  often  to  be  found ; 
and  in  the  library  at  Ferrara  he  has  left  this  memorial  of  himself  on  a 
blank  leaf  of  the  Orlando  Furioso :  '  VITTORIO  ALFIERI  vide  e  venerd. 
18  giugno,  1783.' 

P.  285,  1.  23. 
Such  as  a  shipwrecked  man  might  hope  to  build, 

After  which  in  the  MS. 
A  Crusoe,  sorrowing  in  his  loneliness  — 

P.  286,  1.  5. 

Neglect  the  place,  where,  in  a  graver  mood, 

This  village,  says  Boccaccio,  hitherto  almost  unknown  even  at  Padua., 
is  soon  to  become  famous  through  the  World ;  and  the  sailor  on  the 
Adriatic  will  prostrate  himself,  when  he  discovers  the  Euganean  hills. 
'Among  them,' will  he  say,  'sleeps  the  Poet  who  is  our  glory.  Ah, 
unhappy  Florence !  You  neglected  him — you  deserved  him  not.' 

P.  286,  1.  9. 

Half-way  up 
He  built  his  house, 

4 1  have  built,  among  the  Euganean  hills,  a  small  house,  decent  and 
proper :  in  which  I  hope  to  pass  the  rest  of  my  days,  thinking  always 
of  my  dead  or  absent  friends.'  Among  those  still  living,  was  Boccac- 
cio ;  who  is  thus  mentioned  by  him  in  his  Will.  '  To  Don  Giovanni  of 
Certaldo,  for  a  winter-gown  at  his  evening-studies,  I  leave  fifty  golden 
florins  ;  truly  little  enough  for  so  great  a  man.' 

When  the  Venetians  overran  the  country,   Petrarch  prepared   for 

3c 


418  ITALY. 

flight.  'Write  your  name  OTer  your  door,'  said  one  of  his  friends, 
•and  you  will  be  safe.' — 'I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,'  replied  Petrarch, 
and  fled  with  his  books  to  Padua.  His  books  he  left  to  the  Republic 
of  Venice,  laying,  as  it  were,  a  foundation  for  the  library  of  St.  Mark ; 
but  they  exist  no  longer.  His  legacy  to  Francis  Carrara,  a  Madonna 
painted  by  Giotto,  is  still  preserved  in  the  cathedral  of  Padua. 

P.  286,  1.  26. 

lie  cultured  all  that  could  refine,  exalt ; 

Thrice  happy  is  he  who  acquires  the  habit  of  looking  everywhere 
for  excellences  and  not  for  faults — whether  in  art  or  in  nature  — 
whether  in  a  picture,  a  poem,  or  a  character.  Like  the  bee  in  its 
flight,  he  extracts  the  sweet  and  not  the  bitter  wherever  he  goes ;  till 
his  mind  becomes  a  dwelling-place  for  all  that  is  beautiful,  receiving, 
as  it  were  by  instinct,  what  is  congenial  to  itself,  and  rejecting  every- 
thing else  almost  as  unconsciously  as  if  it  was  not  there. 

P.  287,  1.  5. 

If  thou  shouldst  ever  come  by  choice  or  chance 
To  Modena, 

May  I  for  a  moment  transport  my  reader  into  the  depths  of  the 
Black  Forest?  It  is  for  the  sake  of  a  little  story  which  has  some 
relation  to  the  subject,  and  which  many,  if  I  mistake  not,  will  wish  to 
be  true. 

"Farewell!"  said  the  old  Baron,  as  he  conducted  his  guest  to  the 
Gate.  "If  you  must  go,  you  must.  But  promise  to  write,  for  we 
shall  be  anxious  to  hear  of  your  entire  recovery ;  though  we  cannot 
regret,  as  we  ought  to  do,  an  illness  by  which  we  have  been  so  much 
the  gainers."  The  young  man  said  nothing,  but  the  tears  were  in  his 
eyes ;  and,  as  the  carriage  drove  off,  he  looked  back  again  and  again 
on  the  venerable  towers  of  the  Castle  in  which  he  had  experienced 
such  kindness.  "Nor  can  I  regret  it,"  said  he  to  himself  with  a  sigh. 

Sick  and  a  stranger,  he  had  been  received  and  welcomed  from  a 
miserable  inn  in  the  village  below.  By  the  Baron  he  had  been  treated 
with  the  tenderness  of  a  parent ;  and  by  his  daughter — but  the  reader 
must  fill  up  the  sentence  from  what  follows. 

It  was  a  younger  son  of  the  House  of  Modena,  who  was  now  travel- 
ling homeward  along  the  banks  of  the  Danube.  What  he  thought  at 
first  to  be  gratitude,  neither  time  nor  distance  could  remove  or  diminish ; 


ITALY.  419 

and,  having  not  long  afterwards,  by  some  unexpected  circumstances, 
succeeded  to  the  Dukedom,  he  wrote  instantly  to  invite  Her  to  come 
and  share  his  throne.  "  You  have  given  me  life,"  said  he,  "and  you 
cannot  refuse  me  that  without  which  life  would  be  of  little  value." 

Her  answer  was  soon  received.  She  would  not  deny  the  pleasure, 
the  emotion  with  which  she  had  read  his  letter.  She  would  not  conceal 
the  friendship,  the  more  than  friendship,  which  she  had  conceived  for 
him.  "  But  I  am  no  longer,"  says  she,  "  what  I  was.  A  cruel  distem- 
per has  so  entirely  changed  me  that  you  would  not  know  me ;  and, 
grateful  as  I  shall  ever  feel  for  the  honour  and  the  happiness  you  in- 
tended for  me,  I  must  for  your  sake,  for  my  own,  decline  them  both, 
and  remain  here  to  devote  myself  to  my  Father  in  the  obscurity  in 
which  you  found  me." 

"No,"  he  replied,  "  it  was  your  mind,  and  not  your  person,  beautiful 
as  you  then  were,  beautiful  as  in  my  eyes  you  must  always  continue  to 
be,  that  won  my  regard.  Come,  for  come  you  must,  and  bring  Him, 
my  Friend,  my  Benefactor,  along  with  you,  that  with  you  I  may  study 
to  make  him  happy ;  nor  can  I  fail  of  success,  for  it  shall  be  the  busi- 
ness of  my  life  to  make  you  so." 

She  came,  and  as  lovely  as  ever.  It  was  a  ruse  to  try  the  strength 
of  his  affection ;  and  from  her  has  descended  the  race  that  now  occupies 
the  throne  of  Modena. 

P.  287,  1.  5. 
(in  its  chain  it  hangs 

Affirming  itself  to  be  the  very  bucket  which  TASSONI  in  his  mock 
heroics  has  celebrated  as  the  cause  of  war  between  Bologna  and  Modena 
five  hundred  years  ago. 

P.  287,  1.  22. 

'Tis  of  a  lady  in  her  earliest  youth, 

This  story  is,  I  believe,  founded  on  fact ;  though  the  time  and  place 
are  uncertain.  Many  old  houses  in  England  lay  claim  to  it. 

Except  in  this  instance  and  another  (p.  378)  I  have  everywhere  fol- 
lowed history  or  tradition ;  and  I  would  here  disburden  my  conscience 
in  pointing  out  these  exceptions,  lest  the  reader  should  be  misled  by 
them. 


420  ITALY. 

P.  293,  1.  2. 
and  many  a  tower, 

Such  perhaps  as  suggested  to  Petrochio  the  sonnet,  "  lo  chiesi  a 
Tempo,"  &c. 

I  said  to  Time,  '  This  venerable  pile, 
Its  floor  the  earth,  its  roof  the  firmament, 
Whose  was  it  once  ?'     He  answered  not,  but  fled 
Fast  as  before.     I  turned  to  Fame,  and  asked. 
'  Names  such  as  his,  to  thee  they  must  be  known. 
Speak !'     But  she  answered  only  with  a  sigh, 
And,  musing  mournfully,  looked  on  the  ground. 
Then  to  Oblivion  I  addressed  myself, 
A  dismal  phantom,  sitting  at  the  gate ; 
And,  with  a  voice  as  from  the  grave,  she  cried, 
'  Whose  it  was  once  I  care  not ;  now  'tis  mine.*) 
The  same  turn  of  thought  is  in  an  ancient  inscription  which  Sir 
Walter  Scott  repeated  to  me  many  years  ago,  and  which  he  had  met 
with,  I  believe,  in  the  cemetery  of  Melrose  Abbey,  when  wandering, 
like  Old  Mortality,  among  the  tomb-stones  there. 

The  Earth  walks  on  the  Earth,  glistening  with  gold; 
The  Earth  goes  to  the  Earth,  sooner  than  it  wold. 
The  Earth  builds  on  the  Earth  temples  and  towers ; 

The  Earth  says  to  the  Earth,  'All  will  be  ours.' 

j  - 

P.  294,  1.  20. 
what  a  light  broke  forth, 
When  it  emerged  from  darkness! 

Among  other  instances  of  her  ascendency  at  the  close  of  the  thir- 
teenth century,  it  is  related  that  Florence  saw  twelve  of  her  citizens 
assembled  at  the  court  of  Boniface  the  Eighth,  as  ambassadors  from 
different  parts  of  Europe  and  Asia.  Their  names  are  mentioned  in 
Toscana  Illustrata. 

P.  294,  1.  25. 
In  this  chapel  wrought 

A  chapel  of  the  Holy  Virgin  in  the  church  of  the  Carmelites.  It  is 
adorned  with  the  paintings  of  Massaccio,  and  all  the  great  artists  of 

*  For  the  last  line  I  am  indebted  to  a  translation  by  the  Rev.  Charles  Strong. 


ITALY.  421 

Florence  studied  there ;  Lionardo  da  Vinci,  Fra  Bartolomeo,  Andrea 

del  Sarto,  Michael  Angelo,  Raphael,  &c. 

He  had  no  stone,  no  inscription,  says  one  of  his  biographers,  for  he 

was  thought  little  of  in  his  life-time. 

"Se  alcun  cercasse  it  marmo,  o  il  nome  mio, 
La  chiesa  e  il  marmo*,  una  cappella  8  il  nome." 

It  vans  there  that  Michael  Angelo  received  the  blow  in  his  face. — See 
Vasari,  and  Cellini. 

P.  295,  1.  7. 

The  seat  of  stone  that  runs  along  the  wall, 

II  sasso  di  Dante.  It  exists,  I  believe,  no  longer,  the  wall  having 
been  taken  down ;  but  enough  of  him  remains  elsewhere. —  Boccaccio 
delivered  his  lectures  on  the  Divina  Commedia  in  the  church  of  S.  Ste- 
fano  ;  and  whoever  happens  to  enter  it,  when  the  light  is  favourable, 
may  still,  methinks,  catch  a  glimpse  of  him  and  his  hearers. 

P.  295,  1.  8. 
South  of  the  Church,  east  of  the  belfry-tower, 

This  Quarter  of  the  City  was  at  the  close  of  the  fourteenth  century-j- 
ibe scene  of  a  romantic  incident  that  befell  a  young  lady  of  the  Amieri 
family,  who,  being  crossed  in  love  and  sacrificed  by  her  Father  to  his 
avarice  or  his  ambition,  was,  in  the  fourth  year  of  an  unhappy  marriage, 
consigned  to  the  grave. 

With  the  usual  solemnities  she  was  conveyed  to  the  Cemetery  of  the 
Cathedral,  and  deposited  in  a  tomb  of  the  family  that  was  long  pointed 
out ;  but  she  was  not  to  remain  there.  For  she  had  been  buried  in  a 
trance;  and,  awaking  at  midnight  'among  them  that  slept,'  she  disen- 
gaged in  the  darkness  her  hands  and  her  feet,  and,  climbing  up  the 
narrow  staircase  to  a  gate  that  had  been  left  unlocked,  came  abroad 
into  the  moonshine,  wondering  where  she  was  and  what  had  befallen 
her.  When  she  had  in  some  degree  recovered  herself,  she  sought  the 
house  of  her  Husband  J  ;  going  forth  in  her  grave-clothes  and  passing 
through  the  street  that  was  thenceforth  to  be  called  the  street  of  tho 
Dead  \ .  But,  when  she  arrived  there  and  he  beheld  her,  he  started 
back  as  from  a  spectre,  and  shut  the  door  against  her  and  fled. 

*  Hence  perhaps  the  well-known  inscription  : '  Si  monumcn  turn  quteris,  circumspice. 
f  October,  1396.  J  Nel  Corso  degli  Adimari. 

§  La  Via  della  Morte,  o,  per  dir  meglio,  della  Morta. 

36 


ITALY. 

To  her  Father  then  she  directed  her  steps,  and  afterwards  to  an 
Uncle,  but  with  no  better  success;  and  now,  being  everywhere  rejected 
and  at  a  loss  what  to  do,  she  is  said  to  have  sheltered  herself  in  her 
grief  under  the  porch  of  St.  Bartholomew ;  till,  the  day  beginning  to 
break  and  the  stir  of  life  to  gather  round  her,  she  resolved  at  once  to 
fly  for  refuge  to  him  who  had  loved  her  from  their  childhood ;  and  the 
interview  let  those  imagine  who  can. 

The  sequel  will  surprise  the  reader,  but  we  should  remember  when 
and  where  they  lived.  Her  Husband  claiming  her,  she  appealed  to  the 
Ecclesiastical  Court ;  and  after  due  deliberation  it  was  decided  that, 
having  been  buried  with  the  rites  of  the  Church,  and  having  passed 
through  the  grave,  she  was  absolved  from  her  vow  and  at  liberty  to 
marry  again. — Firenze  Illustrata.  L' Osservatore  Florentine. 

P.  265,  1.  15. 

Many  a  transgressor  sent  to  his  account, 

Inferno,  33.  A  more  dreadful  vehicle  for  satire  cannot  well  be 
conceived. —  Dante,  according  to  Boccaccio,  was  passing  by  a  door  in 
Verona,  at  which  some  women  were  sitting,  when  he  overheard  one  of 
them  say  in  a  low  voice  to  the  rest,  Do  you  see  that  man  ?  He  it  is, 
who  visits  Hell  whenever  he  pleases ;  and  who  returns  to  give  an 
account  of  those  he  finds  there. —  I  can  believe  it,  replied  another. 
Don't  you  observe  his  brown  skin  and  his  frizzled  beard? 

P.  295,  1.  24. 
Sit  thee  down  awhile  ; 
Then,  by  the  gates,  $c. 

"  Movemur  enim  nescio  quo  pacto  locis  ipsis,  in  quibus  eorum,  quos 
diligimus  aut  admiramur,  adsunt  vestigia.  Me  quidem  ipsae  illae  nos- 
trse  Athense  non  tarn  operibus  magnificis  exquisitisque  antiquorum 
urtibus  delectant,  quam  recordatione  summorum  virorum,  ubi  quisque 
habitare,  ubi  sedere,  ubi  disputare  sit  solitus :  studioseque  eorum 
etiam  sepulcra  contemplor." — Cic.  de  Legibus,  ii.  2. 

P.  295,  1.  26. 

That  they  might  serve  to  be  the  gates  of  Heaven, 
A  saying  of  Michael  Angelo.    They  are  the  work  of  Lorenzo  Ghiberti. 


ITALY.  423 

P.  296,  1.  5. 

his,  alas,  to  lead 
A  life  of  trouble, 

Great  indeed  are  the  miseries  that  here  await  the  children  of  Genius ; 
so  exquisitely  alive  are  they  to  every  breath  that  stirs.  But  if  they 
suffer  more  than  others,  more  than  others  is  it  theirs  to  enjoy.  Every 
gleam  of  sunshine  on  their  journey  has  a  lustre  not  its  own ;  and  to 
the  last,  come  what  may,  how  great  is  the  delight  with  which  they 
pour  forth  their  conceptions,  with  which  they  deliver  what  they  receive 
from  the  God  that  is  within  them ;  how  great  the  confidence  with 
which  they  look  forward  to  the  day,  however  distant,  when  those  who 
are  yet  unborn  shall  bless  them ! 

P.  296,  1.  10. 

Nor  then  forget  that  Chamber  of  the  Dead, 

The  Chapel  de'  Depositi ;  in  which  are  the  tombs  of  the  Medici,  by 
Michael  Angelo. 

P.  296,  1.  18. 

That  is  the  Duke  LORENZO.     Mark  him  well. 

He  died  early ;  living  only  to  become  the  father  of  Catherine  de' 
Medici.  Had  an  Evil  Spirit  assumed  the  human  shape  to  propagate 
mischief,  he  could  not  have  done  better. 

The  statue  is  larger  than  life,  but  not  so  large  as  to  shock  belief. 
It  is  the  most  real  and  unreal  thing  that  ever  came  from  the  chisel. 

P.  296,  1.  26. 

On  that  thrice-hallowed  day, 
The  day  of  All  Souls :  H  di  de'  Morti. 

P.  297,  1.  5. 
(It  must  be  known — the  writing  on  the  watt 

"Exnriarc  aliquis  nostiis  ex  ossibus  ultor." 

Perhaps  there  is  nothing  in  language  more  affecting  than  his  last 
testament.  It  is  addressed,  '  To  God,  the  Deliverer,'  and  was  found 
steeped  in  his  blood. 

P.  298,  1.  21. 
the  who  bore  them  both, 

Of  the  Children  that  survived  her,  one  fell  by  a  brother,  one  by  a 
husband,  and  a  third  murdered  his  wife.  But  that  family  was  soon  to 


424  ITALY. 

become  extinct.  It  is  some  consolation  to  reflect  that  their  Country 
did  not  go  unrevenged  for  the  calamities  which  they  had  brought  upon 
her.  How  many  of  them  died  by  the  hand  of  each  other !  — See  p.  309. 

P.  300,  1.  2. 
drawn  on  the  wall 

By  Vasari,  who  attended  him  on  this  occasion. —  Thuanus,  de  Vita 
Bua,  i. 

P.  300,  1.  5. 
From  the  sad  looks  of  him  who  could  have  told, 

It  was  given  out  that  they  had  died  of  a  contagious  fever :  and 
funeral  orations  were  publicly  pronounced  in  their  honour. 

Alfieri  has  written  a  tragedy  on  the  subject ;  if  it  may  be  said  so, 
when  he  has  altered  so  entirely  the  story  and  the  characters. 

P.  300,  1.  19. 

ClMABUE 

He  was  the  father  of  modern  painting,  and  the  master  of  Giotto, 
whose  talent  he  discovered  in  the  way  here  alluded  to. 

"Cinmbue  stood  still,  and,  having  considered  the  boy  and  his  work, 
he  asked  him  if  he  would  go  and  live  with  him  at  Florence  ?  To  which 
the  boy  answered,  that,  if  his  father  was  willing,  he  would  go  with  all 
his  heart." — VASAHI. 

Of  Cimabue  little  now  remains  at  Florence,  except  his  celebrated 
Madonna,  larger  than  life,  in  Santa  Maria  Novella.  It  was  painted, 
according  to  Vasari,  in  a  garden  near  Porta  S.  Piero,  and,  when 
finished,  was  carried  to  the  church  in  solemn  procession  with  trumpets 
before  it.  The  garden  lay  without  the  walls ;  and  such  was  the 
rejoicing  there  on  the  occasion,  such  the  feasting,  that  the  suburb 
received  the  name  of  Borgo  Allegri,  a  name  it  still  bears,  though  now 
a  part  of  the  city. 

P.  300,  1.  22. 

Whence  GALILEO'S  glass,  $c. 
His  first  instrument  was  presented  by  him  to  the  Doge  of  Venice ;  * 

*  There  is  a  tradition  at  Venice  that  he  exhibited  its  wonders  to  the  nobles  there 
on  the  top  of  the  tower  of  St.  Mark. 


ITALY.  425 

his  second,  which  discovered  the  satellites  of  Jupiter,*  and  was  en- 
deared to  him,  as  he  says,  by  much  fatigue  and  many  a  midnight- 
watch,  remained  entire,  I  believe,  till  very  lately,  in  the  Museum  at 
Florence. 

P.  300,  1.  25. 
Beautiful  FLORENCE, 

It  is  somewhere  mentioned  that  Michael  Angelo,  when  he  set  out  from 
Florence  to  build  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  turned  his  horse  round  in  the 
road  to  contemplate  once  more  that  of  the  cathedral,  as  it  rose  in  the 
grey  of  the  morning  from  among  the  pines  and  cypresses  of  the  city, 
and  that  he  said  after  a  pause,  '  Come  te  non  voglio !  Meglio  di  te  non 
possof!'  He  never  indeed  spoke  of  it  but  with  admiration;  and,  if 
we  may  believe  tradition,  his  tomb  by  his  own  desire  was  to  be  so  placed 
in  the  Santa  Croce  as  that  from  it  might  be  seen,  when  the  doors  of  the 
church  stood  open,  that  noble  work  of  Bruneleschi. 

P.  301,  1.  9. 

Came  out  into  the  meadows  ; 

Once,  on  a  bright  November-morning,  I  set  out  and  traced  them,  as 
I  conceived,  step  by  step ;  beginning  and  ending  in  the  Church  of  Santa 
Maria  Novella.  It  was  a  walk  delightful  in  itself,  and  in  its  associa- 
tions. 

P.  301,  1.  16. 

Round  the  green  hill  they  went, 

I  have  here  followed  Baldelli.  It  has  been  said  that  Boccaccio  drew 
from  his  imagination.  But  is  it  likely,  when  he  and  his  readers  were 

*  Kepler's  letter  to  him  on  that  event  is  very  characteristic  of  the  writer.  •  I  was 
sitting  idle  at  home,  thinking  of  you  and  your  letters,  most  excellent  Galileo,  when 
YVachenfels  stopped  his  carriage  at  my  door  to  tell  me  the  news ;  and  such  was  my 
wonder  when  I  heard  it,  such  my  agitation  (for  at  once  it  decided  an  old  controversy 
of  ours)  that,  what  with  his  joy  and  my  surprise,  and  the  laughter  of  both,  we  were 
for  some  time  unable,  he  to  speak,  and  I  to  listen.—  At  last  I  began  to  consider  how 
they  could  be  there,  without  overturning  my  Mysterium  Cosmographicum,  published 
thirteen  years  ago.  Not  that  I  doubt  their  existence.  So  far  from  it,  I  am  longing 
for  a  glass,  if  that  I  may,  if  possible,  get  the  start  of  you,  and  find  two  for  Mars, 
six  or  eight  for  Saturn,'  Sfc. 

In  Jupiter  and  his  satellites,  seen  as  they  now  are,  '  we  behold,  at  a  single  glance 
of  the  eye,  a  beautiful  miniature  of  the  planetary  system,'  and  perhaps  of  every 
system  of  worlds  through  the  regions  of  space. 

f  Like  thee  I  will  not  build  one.    Better  than  tliee  I  cannot. 

36*  3D 


426  ITALY. 

living  within  a  mile  or  two  of  the  spot?  Truth  or  fiction,  it  furnishes 
a  pleasant  picture  of  the  manners  and  amusements  of  the  Florentines 
in  that  day. 

P.  302,  1.  6. 

The  morning-banquet  by  the  fountain-side, 

At  three  o'clock.     Three  hours  after  sun-rise,  according  to  the  old 
manner  of  reckoning. 

P.  303,  1.  6. 

('Tis  his  own  sketch  —  he  drew  it  from  himself) 

See  a  very  interesting  letter  from  Macchiavel  to  Francesco  Vettori, 
dated  the  10th  of  December,  1513. 


P.  303, 1.  20. 

sung  of  Old 
For  its  green  wine  ; 

La  Verdea.     It  is  celebrated  by  Rinuccini,  Redi,  and  most  of  the 
Tuscan  Poets ;  nor  is  it  unnoticed  by  some  of  ours. 

"  Say,  he  had  been  at  Rome,  and  seen  the  relics, 
Drunk  your  Verdea-wine,"  &c. 

BEAUMONT  and  FLETCHER. 


P.  303, 1.  22. 

that  great  Astronomer, 

It  is  difficult  to  conceive  what  Galileo  must  have  felt,  when,  having 
constructed  his  telescope,  he  turned  it  to  the  heavens,  and  saw  the 
mountains  and  valleys  in  the  moon. — Then  the  moon  was  another  earth ; 
the  earth  another  planet ;  and  all  were  subject  to  the  same  laws.  What 
an  evidence  of  the  simplicity  and  magnificence  of  nature  ! 

But  at  length  he  turned  it  again,  still  directing  it  upward,  and  again 
he  was  lost ;  for  he  was  now  among  the  fixed  stars ;  and,  if  not  magni- 
fied as  he  expected  them  to  be,  they  were  multiplied  beyond  measure. 

What  a  moment  of  exultation  for  such  a  mind  as  his !  But  as  yet  it 
was  only  the  dawn  of  a  day  that  was  coming ;  nor  was  he  destined  to 
live  till  that  day  was  in  its  splendour.  The  great  law  of  gravitation 
was  not  yet  to  be  made  known ;  and  how  little  did  he  think,  as  he  held 


ITALY.  427 

the  instrument  in  his  hand,  that  we  should  travel  by  it  so  far  as  we 
have  done  ;  that  its  revelations  would  ere  long  be  so  glorious  *  ! 

P.  303,  1.  23. 

Seven  years  a  prisoner  at  the  city-gate, 

Galileo  came  to  Arcetri  at  the  close  of  the  year  1633 ;  and  remained 
there,  while  he  lived,  by  an  order  of  the  Inquisition  f .  It  is  without 
the  walls,  near  the  Porta  Romana. 

P.  303,  1.  25. 

(His  villa  (justly  was  it  called  The  Gem!} 
H  Giojello. 

P.  304,  1.  1. 
Some  verse  of  ARIOSTO  ! 

Ariosto  himself  employed  much  of  his  time  in  gardening ;  and  to  his 
garden  at  Ferrara  we  owe  many  a  verse. 
\ 

P.  304,  1.  1. 
There,  unseen, 

Milton  went  to  Italy  in  1G38.  "There  it  was,"  says  he,  "that  I 
found  and  visited  the  famous  Galileo  grown  old,  a  prisoner  to  the  In- 
quisition." '  Old  and  blind,'  he  might  have  said.  Galileo,  by  his  own 
account,  became  blind  in  December,  1637.  Milton,  as  we  learn  from 
the  date  of  Sir  Henry  Wotton's  letter  to  him,  had  not  left  England  on 
the  18th  of  April,  following. —  See  Tiraboschi,  and  Wotton's  Remains. 

*  Among  the  innumerable  stars  now  discovered,  and  at  every  improvement  of  the 
telescope  we  discover  more  and  more,  there  are  many  at  such  a  distance  from  this 
little  planet  of  ours,  that '  their  light  must  have  taken  at  least  a  thousand  years  to 
reach  us.'  The  intelligence,  which  they  may  be  said  to  convey  to  us,  night  after  night, 
must  therefore,  when  we  receive  it,  be  a  thousand  years  old ;  for  every  ray  that  conies, 
must  have  set  out  as  long  ago;  and,  '  when  we  observe  their  places,  and  nole  their 
changes,'  they  may  have  ceased  to  exist  for  a  thousand  years. 

Nor  can  their  dimensions  be  less  wonderful  than  their  distances:  if  Sirius,  as  it  is 
more  than  conjectured,  be  nearly  equal  to  fourteen  suns  and  there  lie  others  that  sur- 
pass Sirius.— Vet  all  of  them  must  be  as  nothing  in  the  immensity  of  space,  and 
amidst  the  '  numbers  without  number 'that  may  never  become  visible  here,  though 
they  were  created  in  the  beginning. —  Herschel.  Wollaston. 

t  For  believing  in  the  motion  of  the  earth.  'They  may  issue  their  decrees,'  says 
Pascal,  'it  is  to  no  purpose.  If  the  earth  is  really  turning  round,  all  mankind  to- 
gether could  not  keep  it  from  turning,  or  keep  themselves  from  turning  with  it." 

Les  Provinciates,  xviii. 


ITALY. 

P.  304,  1.  21. 

So  near  the  yellow  TIBER'S  — 
They  rise  within  thirteen  miles  of  each  other. 

P.  305,  1.  1. 
FLORENCE  and  PISA — 

I  cannot  dismiss  Pisa  without  a  line  or  two  ;  for  much  do  I  owe  to 
her.     If  Time  has  levelled  her  ten  thousand  towers  (for,  like  Lucca, 
she  was  '  torreggiata  a  guisa  d'un  boschetto')  she  has  still  her  cathe- 
dral and  her  baptistery,  her  belfry  and  her  cemetery ;  and  from  Time 
they  have  acquired  more  than  they  have  lost. 
If  many  a  noble  monument  is  gone, 
That  said  how  glorious  in  her  day  she  was, 
There  is  a  sacred  place  within  her  walls, 
Sacred  and  silent,  save  when  they  that  die 
Come  there  to  rest,  and  they  that  live,  to  pray. 
For  then  are  voices  heard,  crying  to  God, 
Where  yet  remain,  apart  from  all  things  else, 
Four,  such  as  no  where  on  the  earth  are  seen 
Assembled ;  and  at  even,  when  the  sun 
Sinks  in  the  west,  and  in  the  east  the  moon 
As  slowly  rises,  her  great  round  displaying 
Over  a  City  now  so  desolate  — 
Such  is  the  grandeur,  such  the  solitude, 
Such  their  dominion  in  that  solemn  hour, 
We  stand  and  gaze  and  wonder  where  we  are, 
In  this  world  or  another. 

P.  305,  1.  5. 

Hands,  clad  in  gloves  of  steel,  held  up  imploring ; 
It  was  in  this  manner  that  the  first  Sforza  went  down  when  ho 
perished  in  the  Pescara. 

P.  306,  1.  16. 

And  lo,  an  atom  on  that  dangerous  sea, 

Petrarch,  as  we  learn  from  himself,  was  on  his  way  to  Ancisa; 
whither  his  mother  was  retiring.  He  was  seven  months  old  at  the 
time. 


ITALY.  429 

« 

A  most  extraordinary  deluge,  accompanied  by  signs  and  prodigies, 
happened  a  few  years  afterwards.  "On  that  night,"  says  Giovanni 
Villani,  "  a  hermit,  being  at  prayer  in  his  hermitage  above  Vallombrosa, 
heard  a  furious  trampling  as  of  many  horses ;  and,  crossing  himself 
and  hurrying  to  the  wicket,  saw  a  multitude  of  infernal  horsemen,  all 
black  and  terrible,  riding  by  at  full  speed.  When  in  the  name  of  God 
he  conjured  some  of  them  to  reveal  their  purpose,  they  replied,  'We 
are  going,  if  it  be  His  pleasure,  to  drown  the  city  of  Florence  for  its 
wickedness.'  " — "This  account,"  said  he,  "was  given  me  by  the  Abbot 
of  Vallombrosa,  who  had  questioned  the  holy  man  himself." — xi.  2. 

P.  306,  1.  31. 
Reclined  beside  thee, 

'  O  ego  quantus  cram,  gelidi  cum,  stratus  ad  Ami 

Murmura,'  ftc.  Epitaphium  Damonis, 

P.  307,  1.  12. 

Tower  less, 
There  were  the  '  Nobili  di  Torre '  and  the  '  Nobili  di  Loggia.' 

P.  308,  1.  4. 
At  the  bridge-foot; 

Giovanni  Buondelmonte  was  on  the  point  of  marrying  an  Amidei, 
when  a  widow  of  the  Donati  family  made  him  break  his  engagement 
in  the  manner  here  described. 

The  Amidei  washed  away  the  affront  with  his  blood,  attacking  him, 
says  G.  Villani,  at  the  foot  of  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  as  he  was  coming 
leisurely  along  in  his  white  mantle  on  his  white  palfrey ;  and  hence 
many  years  of  slaughter. 

"  O  Buondelmonte,  quanta  mal  fuggisti 
Le  nozze  sue,  per  gli  altrui  conforti." — DANTE. 

P.  308,  1.  4. 

and  hence  a  world  of  woe! 

If  War  is  a  calamity,  what  a  calamity  must  be  Civil  War ;  for  how 
cruel  are  the  circumstances  which  it  gives  birth  to  ! 

'I  had  served  long  in  foreign  countries,'  says  an  old  soldier,  'and 
had  borne  my  part  in  the  sack  of  many  a  town :  but  there  I  had  only 


430  ITALY. 

to  deal  with  strangers ;  and  I  shall  never,  no  never  forget  what  I  felt 
to-day,  when  a  voice  in  my  own  language  cried  out  to  me  for  quarter.' 

P.  308,  1.  20. 

It  had  been  well,  hadst  ihou  slept  on,  IMELDA, 

The  story  is  Bolognese,  and  is  told  by  Cherubino  Ghiradacci  in  his 
history  of  Bol6gna.  Her  lover  was  of  the  Guelphic  party,  her  brothers 
of  the  Ghibelline ;  and  no  sooner  was  this  act  of  violence  made  known 
than  an  enmity,  hitherto  but  half-suppressed,  broke  out  into  open  war. 
The  Great  Place  was  a  scene  of  battle  and  bloodshed  for  forty  successive 
days  ;  nor  was  a  reconciliation  accomplished  till  six  years  afterwards, 
when  the  families  and  their  adherents  met  there  once  again,  and 
exchanged  the  kiss  of  peace  before  the  Cardinal  Legate ;  as  the  rival 
families  of  Florence  had  already  done  in  the  Place  of  S.  Maria  Novella. 
Every  house  on  the  occasion  was  hung  with  tapestry  and  garlands  of 
flowers. 

P.  308,  1.  27. 

— from  the  wound 
Sucking  the  poison. 

The  Saracens  had  introduced  among  them  the  practice  of  poisoning 
their  daggers. 

P.  308,  1.  29. 

Yet,  when  Slavery  came, 
Worse  followed. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  noblest  works  of  human  genius  have  been 
produced  in  times  of  tumult ;  when  every  man  was  his  own  master, 
and  all  things  were  open  to  all.  Homer,  Dante,  and  Milton  appeared 
in  such  times ;  and  we  may  add  Virgil.* 

P.  309,  1.  18. 

In  every  Palace  was  The  Laboratory, 
As  in  those  of  Cosmo  I.  and  his  son,  Francis. — SISMOKDI,  xvi.  205. 

*  The  Augustan  Age,  as  it  is  called,  what  was  it  but  a  dying  blaze  of  the  Common- 
wealth?   When  Augustus  began  to  reign.  Cicero  and  Lucretius  were  dead,  Catullus 
had  written  his  satires  against  Cffsar,  and  Horace  and  Virgil  were  no  longer  in  their 
first  youth     Horace  had  served  under  Brutus;  and  Virgil  had  been  pronounced  to  be 
"  Magnse  spes  altera  Eomse." 


ITALY.  431 

P.  309,  1.  26. 
Cruel  TOPHANA. 

A  Sicilian,  the  inventress  of  many  poisons ;  the  most  celebrated  of 
•which,  from  its  transparency,  was  called  Acquetta,  or  Acqua  Tophana. 

P.  309,  1.  28.         * 
A  sign  infallible  of  coming  ill, 

The  Cardinal,  Ferdinand  de'  Medici,  is  said  to  have  been  preserved 
in  this  manner  by  a  ring  which  he  wore  on  his  finger ;  as  also  Andrea, 
the  husband  of  Giovanna,  Queen  of  Naples. 

P.  310,  1.  3. 

One  in  the  floor — now  left,  alas,  unlocked. 

H  Trabocchetto. —  See  Vocab.  degli  Accadem.  della  Crusca.  See 
also  Diet,  de  1' Academic  Fran9oise :  art.  Oubliettes. 

P.  310,  1.  12. 

There,  at  Ca'iano, 

Poggio-Caiano,  the  favourite  villa  of  Lorenzo ;  where  he  often  took 
the  diversion  of  hawking.  Pulci  sometimes  went  out  with  him  ;  though, 
it  seems,  with  little  ardour.  See  La  Caccia  col  Falcone,  where  he  is 
described  as  missing ;  and  as  gone  into  a  wood,  to  rhyme  there. 

P.  310,  1.  15. 
With  his  wild  lay — 

The  Morgante  Maggiore.  He  used  to  recite  at  the  table  of  Lorenzo 
in  the  manner  of  the  ancient  Rhapsodists. 

P.  310, 1.  30. 

Of  that  old  den  far  up  among  the  hills, 

Caffaggiolo,  the  favourite  retreat  of  Cosmo,  '  the  father  of  his  coun- 
try.' Eleonora  di  Toledo  was  stabbed  there  on  the  llth  of  July,  1576, 
by  her  husband,  Pietro  de'  Medici ;  and  only  five  days  afterwards,  oil 
the  16th  of  the  same  month,  Isabella  de'  Medici  was  strangled  by  hers, 
Paolo  Giordano  Orsini,  at  his  villa  of  Cerreto.  They  were  at  Florence, 
when  they  were  sent  for,  each  in  her  turn,  Isabella  under  the  pretext 
of  a  hunting  party ;  and  each  in  her  turn  went  to  die. 


432  ITA1Y. 

Isabella  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  accomplished  women  of 
the  Age.  In  the  Latin,  French,  and  Spanish  languages  she  spoke  not 
only  with  fluency  but  elegance  ;  and  in  her  own  she  excelled  as  an  Im- 
provisatrice,  accompanying  herself  on  the  lute.  On  her  arrival  at  dusk, 
Paolo  presented  her  with  two  beautiful  greyhounds,  that  she  might 
make  a  trial  of  their  speed  in  the  morning  ;  and  at  supper  he  was  gay 
beyond  measure.  When  he  retired,  he  sent  for  her  into  his  apartment  ; 
and,  pressing  her  tenderly  to  his  bosom,  slipped  a  cord  round  her  neck. 
She  was  buried  in  Florence  with  great  pomp  ;  but  at  her  burial,  says 
Varchi,  the  crime  divulged  itself.  Her  face  was  black  on  the  bier. 

Eleonora  appears  to  have  had  a  presentiment  of  her  fate.  She  went 
when  required  ;  but,  before  she  set  out,  took  leave  of  her  son,  then  a 
child  ;  weeping  long  and  bitterly  over  him. 

P.  311,  1.  6. 

But,  lo,  the  Sun  is  setting  ; 

I  have  here  endeavoured  to  describe  an  Italian  sun-set  as  I  have  often 
seen  it.  The  conclusion  is  borrowed  from  that  celebrated  passage  in 
Dante,  "Era  gi&  1'  ora,"  &c. 

P.  311,  1.  23. 

It  was  an  hour  of  universal  joy. 
Before  line  2,  p.  311,  in  the  MS. 

The  sun  ascended,  and  the  eastern  sky 

Flamed  like  a  furnace,  while  the  western  glowed 

As  if  another  day  was  dawning  there. 

P.  312,  1.  8. 
when  armies  met, 

The  Roman  and  the  Carthaginian.  Such  was  the  animosity,  says 
Livy,  that  an  earthquake,  which  turned  the  course  of  rivers  and  over* 
threw  cities  and  mountains,  was  felt  by  none  of  the  combatants. 


P.  312,  1.  13. 
And  by  a  brook 

A  tradition.     It  has  been  called  from  time  immemorial,  n  Sangui- 
netto. 


ITALY.  433 

P.  315,  1.  1. 

(Such  the  dominion  of  thy  mighty  voice, 

An  allusion  to  the  CASCATA  DELLE  MARMORE,  a  celebrated  fall  of  the 
VELINO  near  TERNI. 

P.  315,  1.  6. 
No  bush  or  green  or  dry, 

A  sign  in  our  country  as  old  as  SHAKSPEARE,  and  still  used  in  ITALY. 
"Une  branche  d'arbre,  attach6e  a  une  maison  rustique,  nous  annonce 
les  moyens  de  nous  rafraichir.  Nous  y  trouvons  du  lait  et  des  ceufs 
frais;  nous  voila  contens." — Mem.  de  Goldoni. 

There  is,  or  was  very  lately,  in  FLORENCE  a  small  wine-house  with 
this  inscription  over  the  door,  '  Al  buon  vino  non  bisogna  frasca.'  Good 
wine  needs  no  bush.  It  was  much  frequented  by  SALVATOR  ROSA,  who 
drew  a  portrait  of  his  hostess. 

P.  315,  1.  24. 

A  narrow  glade  unfolded,  such  as  Spring 

This  upper  region,  a  country  of  dews  and  dewy  lights,  as  described 
by  VIRGIL  and  PLINY,  and  still,  I  believe,  called  La  Rosa,  is  full  of 
beautiful  scenery.  Who  does  not  wish  to  follow  the  footsteps  of  CICERO 
there,  to  visit  the  Reatine  Tempe  and  the  Seven  Waters? 

P.  317,  1.  19. 

Filling  the  land  with  splendour — 

Perhaps  the  most  beautiful  villa  of  that  day  was  the  VILLA  MADAMA. 
It  is  now  a  ruin  ;  but  enough  remains  of  the  plan  and  the  grotesque- 
work  to  justify  Vasari's  account  of  it. 

The  Pastor  Fido,  if  not  the  Aminta,  used  to  be  often  represented 
there  ;  and  a  theatre,  such  as  is  here  described,  was  to  be  seen  in  the 
gardens  very  lately. 

P.  317,  1.  24. 

Fair  forms  appeared,  murmuring  melodious  verse, 
A  fashion  for  ever  reviving  in  such  a  climate.     In  the  year  1783  the 
Nina  of  Paesiello  was  performed  in  a  small  wood  near  Caserta. 

37  3E 


434  ITALY. 

P.  320,  1.  9. 

she  gathered  her  tresses  into  a  net ; 
See  the  Hecuba  of  Euripides,  v.  911,  &c. 

P.  322, 1.  17. 
All  things  that  strike,  ennoble  — 

Such  was  the  enthusiasm  there  at  the  revival  of  Art,  that  the  dis- 
covery of  a  precious  marble  was  an  event  for  celebration ;  and,  in  the 
instance  of  the  Laocoon,  it  was  recorded  on  the  tomb  of  the  discoverer. 
'  Felici  de  Fredis,  qui  ob  proprias  virtutes,  et  repertum  Laocoonis  divi- 
num  quod  in  Vaticano  cernes  fere  respirans  simulacrum,  immortalitatem 
meruit,  A.  D.  1528.'  * 

The  Laocoon  was  found  in  the  Baths  of  Titus,  and,  as  we  may  con- 
clude, in  the  very  same  chamber  in  which  it  was  seen  by  the  Elder 
Pliny.  It  stood  alone  there  in  a  niche  that  is  still  pointed  out  to  the 
traveller  f ;  and  well  might  it  be  hailed  by  the  Poets  of  that  day !  What 
a  moment  for  the  imagination,  when,  on  the  entrance  of  a  torch,  it 
emerged  at  once  from  the  darkness  of  so  long  a  night !  J 

P.  322,  1.  28. 
the  APPIAN, 

The  street  of  the  tombs  in  POMPEII  may  serve  to  give  us  some  idea 
of  the  Via  Appia,  that  Regina  Viarum,  in  its  splendour.  It  is  perhaps 
the  most  striking  vestige  of  antiquity  that  remains  to  us. 


*  In  the  church  of  Ara  Coeli. 

f  The  walls  and  the  niche  are  of  a  bright  vermilion.  See  Observations  on  the 
colours  of  the  Ancients  by  Sir  Humphry  Davy,  with  whom  I  visited  this  chamber  in 
1814. 

\  There  is  a  letter  on  the  subject,  written  by  Francesco  da  S.  Gallo,  in  ]5G7. 

•Some  statues  being  discovered  in  a  vineyard  near  8.  Maria  Mnggiore,  the  Pope 
said  to  a  groom  of  the  stables,  "Tell  Giuliano  da  S.  Gallo  to  go  and  see  them;"  and 
my  father,  when  he  received  the  message,  went  directly  to  Michael  Angelo  Buonar- 
roti, who  was  always  to  be  found  at  home  (being  at  that  time  employed  on  the  Mauso- 
leum), and  they  set  out  together  on  horseback  ;  I,  who  was  yet  a  child,  riding  on  the 
crupper  behind  my  father. 

4  When  they  arrived  there  and  went  down,  they  exclaimed,  "  This  is  the  Laocoon 
of  which  Pliny  makes  mention !"  and  the  opening  was  enlarged  that  the  marble 
might  be  taken  out  and  inspected ;  and  they  returned  to  dinner,  discoursing  of  ancient 
things.' 


ITALY.  435 

P.  323,  1.  4. 
HORACE  himself — 

And  AUGUSTUS  in  his  litter,  coming  at  a  still  slower  rate.  He  was 
borne  along  by  slaves ;  and  the  gentle  motion  allowed  him  to  read, 
write,  and  employ  himself  as  in  his  cabinet.  Though  Tivoli  is  only 
sixteen  miles  from  the  City,  he  was  always  two  nights  on  the  road. — 
SUETONIUS. 

P.  323, 1.  14. 
Where  his  voice  faltered 

At  the  words  <Tu  Marcellus  eris.'  The  story  is  so  beautiful,  that 
every  reader  must  wish  it  to  be  true. 

P.  323, 1.  23. 

the  centre  of  their  Universe, 

From  the  golden  pillar  in  the  Forum  the  ways  ran  to  the  gates,  and 
from  the  gates  to  the  extremities  of  the  Empire. 

P.  324, 1.  9. 
To  the  twelve  tables, 

The  laws  of  the  twelve  tables  were  inscribed  on  pillars  of  brass,  and 
placed  in  the  most  conspicuous  part  of  the  Forum. —  DION.  HAL. 

P.  324, 1. 12. 

And  to  the  shepherd  on  the  ALBAN  mount 
'Amplitude  tanta  est,  ut  conspiciatur  a  Latiario  Jove.' — C.  PLIN. 

P.  324,  1.  20. 
Scorning  the  chains  he  could  not  hope  to  break, 

We  are  told  that  Caesar  passed  the  Rubicon  and  overthrew  the  Com- 
monwealth ;  but  the  seeds  of  destruction  were  already  in  the  Senate- 
house,  the  Forum,  and  the  Camp.  When  Caesar  fell,  was  liberty 
restored  ? 

History,  as  well  as  poetry,  delights  in  a  hero,  and  is  for  ever  ascribing 
to  one  what  was  the  work  of  many :  for,  as  men,  we  are  flattered  by 
such  representations  of  human  greatness ;  forgetting  how  often  leaders 
are  led,  and  overlooking  the  thousand  thousand  springs  of  action  by 
which  the  events  of  the  world  are  brought  to  pass. 


436  ITALY. 

P.  324,  1.  22. 
Along  the  Sacred  Way 

It  was  in  the  Via  Sacra  that  Horace,  when  musing  along  as  usual, 
was  so  cruelly  assailed ;  and  how  well  has  he  described  an  animal  that 
preys  on  its  kind. — It  was  there  also  that  Cicero  was  assailed ;  but  he 
bore  his  sufferings  with  less  composure,  as  well  indeed  he  might; 
taking  refuge  in  the  vestibule  of  the  nearest  house.  Ad.  Alt.  iv.  3. 

P.  324,  1.  28. 

A  thousand  torches,  turning  night  to  day, 

An  allusion  to  Caesar  in  his  Gallic  triumph.  "Adscendit  Capitolium 
ad  lumina,"  $c. — SUETONIUS. 

P.  325,  1.  6. 
On  those  so  young,  well-pleased  with  all  they  see, 

In  the  triumph  of  JEmilius,  nothing  affected  the  Roman  people  like 
the  children  of  Perseus.  Many  wept ;  nor  could  anything  else  attract 
notice,  till  they  were  gone  by. —  PLUTARCH. 

P.  325,  1.  12. 

Well  might  the  great,  the  mighty  of  the  world, 

"  Kien  ne  servit  mieux  Rome,  que  le  respect  qu'elle  imprima  &  It, 
terre.  Elle  mit  d'abord  les  rois  dans  le  silence,  et  les  rendit  comme 
stupides.  II  ne  s'agissoit  pas  du  de'gre'  de  leur  puissance ;  mais  leur 
personne  propre  e"toit  attaque"e.  Risquer  une  guerre,  c'e"toit  s'exposer 
a  la  captivite",  a  la  mort,  a  1'infamie  du  triomphe." — MONTESQUIEU. 

P.  326,  1.  4. 

Some  invoked 
Death  and  escaped; 

'Spare  me,  I  pray,  this  indignity,'  said  Perseus  to  jEmilius.  'Make 
me  not  a  public  spectacle ;  drag  me  not  through  your  streets.' — 'What 
you  ask  for,'  replied  the  Roman,  'is  in  your  own  power.' — PLUTABCH. 

P.  326,  1.  7. 

and  she  who  said, 

Taking  the  fatal  cup  between  her  hands, 

Sophonisba.  The  story  of  the  marriage  and  the  poison  is  well  known 
to  every  reader. 


ITALY.  437 

P.  329,  1.  22. 
His  last  great  work  ; 

The  Transfiguration ;  '  la  quale  opera,  nel  vedere  il  corpo  morto,  e 
quella  viva,  faceva  scoppiare  1'animi  di  dolore  a  ogni  uno  che  quivi 
guardava. ' — VAS  AM. 

P.  329,  1.  23. 
then  on  that  master-piece, 

'You  almire  that  picture,'  said  an  old  Dominican  to  me  at  Padua,  as 
I  stood  contemplating  a  Last  Supper  in  the  Refectory  of  his  Convent, 
the  figures  as  large  as  the  life.  « I  have  sat  at  my  meals  before  it  for 
seven-and-forty  years :  and  such  are  the  changes  that  have  taken  place 
among  us  —  so  many  have  come  and  gone  in  the  time  —  that,  when  I 
look  upon  the  company  there — upon  those  who  are  sitting  at  that 
table,  silent  as  they  are  —  I  am  sometimes  inclined  to  think  that  we, 
and  not  they,  are  the  shadows.' 

The  celebrated  fresco  of  Lionardo  da  Vinci  in  the  monastery  of 
Santa  Maria  delle  Grazie  at  Milan  must  again  and  again  have  suggest- 
ed the  same  reflection.  Opposite  to  it  stood  the  Prior's  table,  the 
monks  sitting  down  the  chamber  on  the  right  and  left :  and  the  Artist, 
throughout  his  picture,  has  evidently  endeavoured  to  make  it  corres- 
pond with  what  he  saw  when  they  were  assembled  there.  The  table- 
cloth, with  the  corners  tied  up,  and  with  its  regular  folds  as  from  the 
press,  must  have  been  faithfully  copied ;  and  the  dishes  and  drinking- 
cups  are,  no  doubt,  such  as  were  used  by  the  fathers  in  that  day.  See 
GOETHE. 

Indefatigable  was  Lionardo  in  the  prosecution  of  this  work.  "I 
have  seen  him,"  says  Bandello  the  novelist,  "mount  the  scaffold  at  day- 
break and  continue  there  till  night,  forgetting  to  eat  or  drink.  Not  but 
that  he  would  sometimes  leave  it  for  many  days  together,  and  then 
return  only  to  meditate  upon  it,  or  to  touch  and  retouch  it  hero  and 
there."  The  Prior  was  for  ever  complaining  of  the  little  progress  that 
he  made,  and  the  Duke  at  last  consented  to  speak  with  him  on  the 
subject.  His  answer  is  given  by  Vasari.  "  Perhaps  then  I  am  most 
busy  when  I  seem  to  be  most  idle,  for  I  must  think  before  I  execute. 
But,  think  as  I  will,  there  are  two  persons  at  the  supper  to  whom  I 
shall  never  do  justice  —  Our  Lord  and  the  disciple  who  betrayed  Him. 
Now  if  the  Prior  would  but  sit  to  me  for  the  last " 

The  Prior  gave  him  no  more  trouble. 

37* 


438  ITALY. 

P.  330,  1.  5. 

Another  Assassination,  $c. 

How  noble  is  that  burst  of  eloquence  in  Hooker!  "Of  Law  there 
can  be  no  less  acknowledged,  than  that  her  seat  is  the  bosom  of  God, 
her  voice  the  harmony  of  the  world.  All  things  in  heaven  and  earth 
do  her  homage ;  the  very  least  as  feeling  her  care,  and  the  greatest  as 
not  exempted  from  her  power." 

P.  332,  1.  22. 

His  judgments  are  not  as  ours  are. 

Are  we  not  also  unjust  to  ourselves ;  and  are  not  the  best  among  us 
the  most  so  ?  Many  a  good  deed  is  done  by  us  and  forgotten.  Our 
benevolent  feelings  are  indulged,  and  we  think  no  more  of  it.  But  is 
it  so  when  we  err  ?  And  when  we  wrong  another  and  cannot  redress 
the  wrong,  where  are  we  then  ?  — Yet  so  it  is  and  so  no  doubt  it  should 
be,  to  urge  us  on  without  ceasing,  in  this  place  of  trial  and  discipline, 
From  good  to  better  and  to  better  still. 

P.  333,  1.  6. 

Have  none  appeared  as  tillers  of  the  ground, 

The  Author  of  the  letters  to  Julia  has  written  admirably  on  this 
Bubject. 

•'  All  sad,  all  silent !    O'er  the  ear 

No  sound  of  cheerful  toil  is  swelling ; 
Earth  has  no  quickening  spirit  here, 
Nature  no  charm,  and  Man  no  dwelling!" 

Not  less  admirably  has  he  described  a  Roman  beauty:  such  as 
'  weaves  her  spells  beyond  the  Tiber.' 

"  Methinks  the  Furies  with  their  snakes, 

Or  Venus  with  her  zone  might  gird  her; 
Of  fiend  and  goddess  she  partakes, 

And  looks  at  once  both  Love  and  Murder." 

P.  333,  1. 10. 
From  this  Seat, 

Mons  Albanus,  now  called  Monte  Cavo.  On  the  summit  stood  for 
many  centuries  the  temple  of  Jupiter  Latiaris.  "  Tuque  ex  tuo  edito 
monte  Latiaris,  sancte  Jupiter,"  &c. —  CICERO. 


ITALY.  439 

P.  333,  1.  25. 

Two  were  so  soon  to  wander  and  be  slain, 

Nisus  and  Euryalus.  "La  scene  des  six  derniers  livres  de  Virgile 
ne  comprend  qu'une  lieue  de  terrain." — BONSTETTEN. 

P.  333,  1.  29. 

How  many  realms,  pastoral  and  warlike,  lay 
Forty-seven,  according  to  Dionys.  Halicar.  I.  i. 

P.  334,  1.  25. 

Here  is  the  sacred  field  of  the  HOEATH. 
"Horatiorum  qua  viret  sacer  campus." — MART. 

P.  334,  1.  26. 

There  are  the  QDINTIAN  meadows. 
"Quoe  prata  Quintia  vocantur." — LIVT. 

P.  336, 1.  23. 
Wander  like  strangers 

It  was  not  always  so.  There  were  once  within  her  walls  'more 
erected  spirits.' 

"Let  me  recall  to  your  mind,"  says  Petrarch  in  a  letter  to  old 
Stephen  Colonna,  "the  walk  we  took  together  at  a  late  hour  in  the 
broad  street  that  leads  from  your  palace  to  the  Capitol.  To  me  it  seems 
as  yesterday,  though  it  was  ten  years  ago.  When  we  arrived  where 
the  four  ways  meet,  we  stopped ;  and,  none  interrupting  us,  we  dis- 
coursed long  on  the  fallen  fortunes  of  your  House.  Fixing  your  eyes 
steadfastly  upon  me  and  then  turning  them  away  full  of  tears,  '  I  have 
nothing  now,'  you  said,  '  to  leave  my  children.  But  a  still  greater 
calamity  awaits  me  —  I  shall  inherit  from  them  all.'  You  remember 
the  words,  no  doubt ;  words  so  fully  accomplished.  I  certainly  do ; 
and  as  distinctly  as  the  old  sepulchre  in  the  corner,  on  which  we  TK  ere 
leaning  with  our  elbows  at  the  time." — Epist.  Famil.  viii.  1. 

The  sepulchre  here  alluded  to  must  have  been  that  of  Bibulus ;  and 
what  an  interest  it  derives  from  this  anecdote !  Stephen  Colonna  was 
a  hero  worthy  of  antiquity;  and  in  his  distress  was  an  object,  not  of 
pity,  but  of  reverence.  When  overtaken  by  his  pursuers  and  question 


440  ITALY. 

ed  by  those  who  knew  him  not,  « I  am  Stephen  Colonna,'  he  replied,  '  a 
citizen  of  Rome ! '  and,  when  in  the  last  extremity  of  battle  a  voice 
cried  out  to  him,  '  Where  is  n6w  your  fortress,  Colonna  ? '  '  Here ! '  he 
answered  gaily,  laying  his  hand  on  his  heart. 

P.  337,  1.  16. 
Music  and  painting,  sculpture,  rhetoric, 

Music ;  and  from  the  loftiest  strain  to  the  lowliest,  from  a  Miserere 
in  the  Holy  Week  to  the  Shepherd's  humble  offering  in  Advent ;  the 
last,  if  we  may  judge  from  its  effects,  not  the  least  subduing,  perhaps 
the  most  so. 

Once,  as  I  was  approaching  Frescati  in  the  sunshine  of  a  cloudless 
December-morning,  I  observed  a  rustic  group  by  the  road-side,  before 
an  image  of  the  Virgin,  that  claimed  the  devotions  of  the  passenger 
from  a  niche  in  a  vineyard-wall.  Two  young  men  from  the  mountains 
of  the  Abruzzi,  in  their  long  brown  cloaks,  were  playing  a  Christmas- 
carol.  Their  instruments  were  a  hautboy  and  a  bagpipe ;  and  the 
air,  wild  and  simple  as  it  was,  was  such  as  she  might  accept  with 
pleasure.  The  ingenuous  and  smiling  countenances  of  these  rude 
minstrels,  who  seemed  so  sure  that  she  heard  them,  and  the  unaffected 
delight  of  their  little  audience,  all  younger  than  themselves,  all  stand- 
ing uncovered  and  moving  their  lips  in  prayer,  would  have  arrested 
the  most  careless  traveller. 

P.  337,  1.  17, 

And  dazzling  light  and  darkness  visible, 

Whoever  has  entered  the  church  of  St.  Peter's  or  the  Pauline  chapel, 
during  the  Exposition  of  the  Holy  Sacrament  there,  will  not  soon  forget 
the  blaze  of  the  altar,  or  the  dark  circle  of  worshippers  kneeling  in 
silence  before  it. 

P.  337,  1.  16. 

What  in  his  day  the  SYRACUSAN  sought, 

An  allusion  to  the  saying  of  ARCHIMEDES,  '  Give  me  a  place  to  stand 
upon,  and  I  will  move  the  earth.' 

P.  337,  1.  19. 
Ere  they  came, 

An  allusion  to  the  Prophecies  concerning  ANTICHRIST.  See  the  in- 
terpretations of  Mede,  Newton,  Clarke,  &c. ;  not  to  mention  those  of 
Dante  and  Petrarch. 


ITALY.  441 

P.  339,  1.  25. 

And  from  the  latticed  gallery  came  a  chant 
Of  psalms,  most  saint-like,  most  angelical, 

There  was  said  to  be  in  the  choir,  among  others  of  the  Sisterhood,  a 
daughter  of  Cimarosa. 

P.  340,  1.  10. 
Thus  I  renounce  the  world! 

It  was  at  such  a  moment,  when  contemplating  the  young  and  the 
beautiful,  that  Tasso  conceived  his  sonnets,  beginning  '  Vergine  pia ' 
and  '  Vergine  bella.'  Those  to  whom  he  addressed  them,  have  long 
been  forgotten ;  though  they  were  as  much,  perhaps,  to  be  loved,  and 
as  much  also  to  be  pitied. 

P.  340,  1.  17. 

(fTwas  in  her  utmost  need,  nor,  while  she  lives, 

Her  back  was  at  that  time  turned  to  the  people ;  but  in  his  countenance 
might  be  read  all  that  was  passing.  The  Cardinal,  who  officiated,  was 
a  venerable  old  man,  evidently  unused  to  the  service  and  much  affected 
by  it. 

P.  341, 1.  13. 

To  the  black  pall,  the  requiem. 

Among  other  ceremonies  a  pall  was  thrown  over  her,  and  a  requiem 
Bung. 

P.  341, 1.  24. 
Unsheaths  his  wings 
He  is  of  the  beetle-tribe. 

P.  341,  1.  26. 
Blazing  by  fits  as  from  excess  of  joy, 

"  For  in  that  upper  clime  effulgence  comes 
Of  gladness." —  Cory's  Dante. 

P.  342,  1.  5. 

Singing  the  nursery-song  he  learnt  so  soon; 

There  is  a  song  to  the  lucciola  in  every  dialect  of  Italy ;  as  for  in- 
stance in  the  Genoese. 

3F 


442  ITALY. 

"Cabela,  vegni  a  baso ; 
Ti  dajo  un  cuge  de  lette." 

The  Roman  is  in  a  higher  strain. 

"  Bella  regina,"  &c. 

P.  342,  1.  6. 

And  the  young  nymph,  preparing  for  the  dance 
"Io  piglio,  quando  il  di  giunge  al  confine, 
Le  lucciole  ne'  prati  ampj  ridotte, 
E,  come  gemme,  le  comparto  al  crine ; 
Poi  fra  1'  ombre  da'  rai  vivi  interrotte 
Mi  presento  ai  Pastori,  e  ognun  mi  dice; 
Clori  ha  la  stelle  al  crin  come  ha  laNotte."       VARA.NO. 

P.  342,  1.  15. 

Those  trees,  religious  once  and  always  green, 

Pliny  mentions  an  extraordinary  instance  of  longevity  in  the  ilex. 
'  There  is  one,'  says  he,  '  in  the  Vatican,  older  than  the  City  itself.  An 
Etruscan  inscription  in  letters  of  brass  attests  that  even  in  those  days 
the  tree  was  held  sacred :'  and  it  is  remarkable  that  there  is  at  this  time 
on  the  Vatican  mount  an  ilex  of  great  antiquity.  It  is  in  a  grove  just 
above  the  palace-garden. 

P.  342,  1.  20. 

(So  some  aver,  and  who  would  not  believe  f) 

"  I  did  not  tell  you  that  just  below  the  first  fall,  on  the  side  of  the 
rock,  and  hanging  over  that  torrent,  are  little  ruins  which  they  show 
you  for  Horace's  house,  a  curious  situation  to  observe  the 
•PrsEceps  Anio,  et  Tiburni  lucus,  et  uda 
Mobilibus  pomaria  rivis." "          GRAY'S  Letters. 

P.  843,  1.  23. 
glass  of  Falernian, 

We  were  now  within  a  few  hours  of  the  Campania  Felix.  On  the 
colour  and  flavour  of  Falernian,  consult  Galen  and  Dioscorides. 

P.  344,  1.  6. 

Ours  is  a  nation  of  travellers; 

As  indeed  it  always  was,  contributing  those  of  every  degree,  from  a 
milord  with  his  suite  to  him  whose  only  attendant  is  his  shadow.  Cor- 


ITALY.  443 

yate  in  1608  performed  his  journey  on  foot;  and,  returning,  hung  up 
his  shoes  in  his  village-church  as  an  ex-voto.  Goldsmith,  a  century 
and  a  half  afterwards,  followed  in  nearly  the  same  path ;  playing  a 
tune  on  his  flute  to  procure  admittance,  whenever  he  approached  a  cot- 
tage at  night-fall. 

P.  345,  1.  9. 

All  is  new  and  strange. 

We  cross  a  narrow  sea ;  we  land  on  a  shore  which  we  have  contem- 
plated from  our  own ;  and  we  awake,  as  it  were,  in  another  planet. 
The  very  child  that  lisps  there,  lisps  in  words  which  we  have  yet  to 
learn. 

Nor  is  it  less  interesting,  if  less  striking,  to  observe  the  gradations 
in  language,  and  feature,  and  character,  as  we  travel  on  from  kingdom 
to  kingdom.  The  French  peasant  becomes  more  and  more  an  Italian 
as  we  approach  Italy,  and  a  Spaniard  as  we  approach  Spain. 

P.  349,  1.  21. 

When  they  that  robbed,  were  men  of  better  faith 

Alluding  to  Alfonso  Piccolomini.  "  Stupiva  ciascuno  che,  mentre  un 
bandito  osservava  rigorosamente  la  sua  parola,  il  Papa  non  avesse  ri- 
brezzo  di  mancare  alia  propria." — GALLUZZI,  ii.  364.  He  was  hanged 
at  Florence,  March  16,  1591. 

P.  350,  1.  4. 
When  along  the  shore, 

Tasso  was  returning  from  Naples  to  Rome,  and  had  arrived  at  Mola 
di  Gaeta,  when  he  received  this  tribute  of  respect.  The  captain  of  the 
troop  was  Marco  di  Sciarra.  See  MANSO,  Vita  del  Tasso.  Ariosto  had 
a  similar  adventure  with  Filippo  Pacchione.  See  GAJIOFALO. 

P.  350,  1.  18. 

As  by  a  spell  they  start  up  in  array, 

'  Cette  race  de  bandits  a  ses  racines  dans  la  population  memo  du 
pays.  La  police  ne  sait  ou  les  trouver.' — Lettres  de  Chateauvieux. 

P.  353,  1.  7. 

Three  days  they  lay  in  ambush  at  my  gate, 

This  story  was  written  in  the  year  1820,  and  is  founded  on  the  many 
narratives  which  at  that  time  were  circulating  in  Rome  and  Naples. 


444  ITALY. 

P.  358,  1.  6. 

And  be  it  mine  to  muse  there,  mine  to  glide, 

If  the  bay  of  Naples  is  still  beautiful,  if  it  still  deserves  the  epithet 
of  pulcherrimus,  what  must  it  not  once  have  been  ;*  and  who,  as  he  saila 
round  it,  can  imagine  it  to  himself  as  it  was  —  when  not  only  the  villas 
of  the  Romans  were  in  their  splendourf,  but  the  temples ;  when  those 
of  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii  and  Baiae  and  Puteoli,  and  how  many 
more,  were  standing,  each  on  its  eminence  or  on  the  margin  of  the  sea ; 
while,  with  choral  music  and  with  a  magnificence  that  had  exhausted 
the  wealth  of  kingdoms^,  the  galleys  of  the  Imperial  Court  were  an- 
choring in  the  shade  or  moving  up  and  down  in  the  sunshine. 

P.  361,  1.  1. 
Strange,  that  one  so  vile 

'  How  often,  to  demonstrate  his  power;  does  the  Almighty  employ  the 
meanest  of  his  instruments ;  as  in  Egypt,  when  he  called  forth  —  not 
the  serpents  and  the  monsters  of  Africa  —  but  vermin  from  the  very 
dust!' 

P.  361,  I.  11. 

And  in  the  track  of  him  who  went  to  die, 

The  Elder  Pliny.  See  the  letter  in  which  his  Nephew  relates  to 
Tacitus  the  circumstances  of  his  death. — In  the  morning  of  that  day 
Vesuvius  was  covered  with  the  most  luxuriant  vegetation ;  every  elm 
had  its  vine,  every  vine  (for  it  was  in  the  month  of  August)  its  clus- 
ters \ ;  nor  in  the  cities  below  was  there  a  thought  of  danger,  though 
their  interment  was  so  soon  to  take  place.  In  Pompeii,  if  we  may  be- 
lieve Dion  Cassius,  the  people  were  sitting  in  the  Theatre,  when  the 
work  of  destruction  began. 


«  '  Antequam  Vesuvius  mons,  ardescens,  faciem  loci  verteret.'— TACIT.  Jinnal.  iv.  67. 

t  With  their  groves  and  porticoes  they  were  everywhere  along  the  shore,  •  erat  enim 
frequens  amoenitas  one  ;'  and  what  a  neighbourhood  must  have  been  there  in  the  last 
days  of  the  Commonwealth,  when  such  men  as  Caesar  and  Pompey  and  Lucullus,  and 
Cicero  and  Hortensius  and  Brutus,  were  continually  retiring  thither  from  the  cares  of 
public  life ! 

t '  Gemma tis  puppibus,  versicoloribus  velis,1  &c.— SDETOIT.  Calig.  37. 

§  Martial,  iv.  44. 


ITALY.  445 

P.  361,  1.  21. 
the  house  of  Pansa)  — 

Pansa,  the  ^)dile ;  according  to  some  of  the  interpreters ;  but  the 
inscription  at  the  entrance  is  very  obscure. 

It  is  remarkable  that  Cicero,  when  on  his  way  to  Cilicia,  was  the 
bearer  of  a  letter  to  Atticus  '  ex  Pansse  Pompeiano.'*  (Ad  Att.  v.  3.) 
That  this  was  the  house  in  question;  and  that  in  the  street,  as  we 
passed  along,  we  might  have  met  him,  coming  or  going,  every  pilgrim 
to  Pompeii  must  wish  to  believe. 

But  delighting  in  the  coast  and  in  his  own  Pompeianum,  (Ad  Att.  ii.  1) 
he  could  be  no  stranger  in  that  City ;  and  often  must  he  have  received 
there  such  homage  as  ours. 

P.  371,  1.  13. 

They  stand  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea  ; 

The  temples  of  Paestum  are  three  in  number ;  and  have  survived, 
nearly  nine  centuries,  the  total  destruction  of  the  city.  Tradition  is 
silent  concerning  them :  but  they  must  have  existed  now  between  two 
and  three  thousand  years. 

P.  372,  1.  19. 

The  air  is  sweet  with  violets,  running  mid 

The  violets  of  Paestum  were  as  proverbial  as  the  roses.  Martial 
mentions  them  with  the  honey  of  Hybla. 

P.  372,  1.  22. 

Those  thoughts  so  precious  and  so  lately  lost, 

The  introduction  to  his  treatise  on  Glory.  Cic.  ad  Att.  xvi.  6.  For 
an  account  of  the  loss  of  that  treatise,  see  Petrarch,  Epist.  Rer.  Senilium, 
xv.  1,  and  Bayle,  Diet,  in  Alcyonius. 

P.  373,  1.  19. 

Led  by  the  mighty  Genius  of  the  Place. 

They  are  said  to  have  been  discovered  by  accident  about  the  middle 
of  the  last  century. 

*  According  to  Grsvius.    The  manuscripts  disagree. 

38 


446  ITALY. 

P.  373,  1.  31. 
and  POSIDONIA  rose, 

Originally  a  Greek  City  under  that  name,  and  afterwards  a  Roman 
City  under  the  name  of  Paestum.  See  Mitford's  Hist,  of  Greece,  chap.  x. 
sect.  2.  It  was  surprised  and  destroyed  by  the  Saracens  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  tenth  century. 

P.  375,  1.  28. 
,The  fishing-town,  AMALFI. 

'  Amalfi  fell  after  three  hundred  years  of  prosperity ;  but  the  poverty 
of  one  thousand  fishermen  is  yet  dignified  by  the  remains  of  an  arsenal, 
a  cathedral,  and  the  palaces  of  royal  merchants.' — GIBBON. 

P.  376,  1.  10. 
to  thy  great  wall,  CATHAY. 
China.     After  line  10,  in  the  MS. 

That  wall,  so  massive,  so  interminable, 
For  ever,  with  its  battlements  and  towers, 
Climbing,  descending,  from  assault  to  guard 
A  people  numerous  as  the  ocean-sands, 
And  glorying  as  the  mightiest  of  mankind ; 
Yet  where  they  are,  contented  to  remain ; 
From  age  to  age  resolved  to  cultivate 
Peace  and  the  arts  of  peace  —  turning  to  gold 
The  very  ground  they  tread  on  and  the  leaves 
They  gather  from  their  trees,  year  after  year.* 

P.  377,  1.  6. 

Grain  from  the  golden  vales  of  SICILY, 

There  is  at  this  day  in  Syracuse  a  street  called  La  Strada  degli 
Amalfitani. 

P.  377, 1.  20. 

Not  thus  did  they  return, 
TJie  tyrant  slain  ; 

In  the  year  839.  See  MUBATOKI  :  Art,  Chronici  Amalphitani  Fraa- 
menta. 

*  An  allusion  to  the  porcelain  and  the  tea  of  the  Chinese. 


ITALY.  447 

P.  377,  1.  33. 
Serve  for  their  monument ! 

By  degrees,  says  Giannone,  they  made  themselves  famous  through 
the  world.  The  Tarini  Amalfitani  were  a  coin  familiar  to  all  nations ; 
and  their  maritime  code  regulated  everywhere  the  commerce  of  the 
sea.  Many  churches  in  the  East  were  by  them  built  and  endowed ;  by 
them  was  founded  in  Palestine  that  most  renowned  military  order  of 
St.  John  of  Jerusalem ;  and  who  does  not  know  that  the  mariner's 
compass  was  invented  by  a  citizen  of  Amalfii  ? 

P.  378,  1.  3. 
MONTE  CASSINO. 

The  abbey  of  Monte  Cassino  is  the  most  ancient  and  venerable  house 
of  the  Benedictine  order.  It  is  situated  within  fifteen  leagues  of  Naples 
on  the  inland  road  to  Rome ;  and  no  house  is  more  hospitable. 

P.  378,  1.  5. 

'  What  hangs  behind  that  curtain  ? ' 

This  story,  if  a  story  it  may  be  called,  is  fictitious ;  and  I  have  done 
little  more  than  give  it  as  I  received  it. 

P.  378,  1.  13. 

For  life  is  surely  there  and  visible  change, 

There  are  many  miraculous  pictures  in  Italy ;  but  none,  I  believe, 
were  ever  before  described  as  malignant  in  their  influence. — At  Arezzo 
in  the  church  of  St.  Angelo  there  is  indeed  over  the  great  altar  a 
fresco-painting  of  the  Fall  of  the  Angels,  which  has  a  singular  story 
belonging  to  it.  It  was  painted  in  the  fourteenth  century  by  Spinello 
Aretino,  who  has  there  represented  Lucifer  as  changed  into  a  shape  so 
monstrous  and  terrible,  that  it  is  said  to  have  haunted  the  Artist  in  his 
dreams,  and  \o  have  hastened  his  death,  deranging  him  in  mind  and 
body.  In  the  upper  part  St.  Michael  is  seen  in  combat  with  the  Dragon : 
the  fatal  transformation  is  in  the  lower  part  of  the  picture. — VASAUI. 

P.  380,  1.  29. 

Within  a  crazed  and  tattered  vehicle, 
Then  degraded,  and  belonging  to  a  Vetturino. 


448  ITALY. 

P.  380,  1.  29. 

A  shield  as  splendid  as  the  BARDI  wear, 

A  Florentine  family  of  great  antiquity.  In  the  sixty-third  novel  of 
Franco  Sacchetti  we  read,  that  a  stranger,  suddenly  entering  Giotto's 
study,  threw  down  a  shield,  and  departed,  saying,  '  Paint  me  my  arms 
in  that  shield ; '  and  that  Giotto,  looking  after  him,  exclaimed,  '  Who  is 
he  ?  What  is  he  ?  He  says,  Paint  me  my  arms,  as  if  he  was  one  of 
the  BAEDI  !  What  arms  does  he  bear  ? ' 

P.  882,  1.  3. 

THE  FELUCA. 

A  large  boat  for  rowing  and  sailing,  much  used  in  the  Mediterranean. 

P.  383,  1.  3. 

DORIA,  PlSANI 

Paganino  Doria,  Nicolo  Pisani ;  those  great  seamen,  who  balanced 
for  so  many  years  the  fortunes  of  Genoa  and  Venice. 

P.  383,  1.  27. 

How  oft,  where  now  we  rode 

Every  reader  of  Spanish  poetry  is  acquainted  with  that  affecting 
romance  of  Gongora, 

"  Amarrado  al  duro  Banco,"  &c. 
Lord  Holland  has  translated  it  into  his  excellent  life  of  Lope  de  Vega. 

P.  385,  1.  26. 

This  house  was  ANDREA  DORIA'S. 

There  is  a  custom  on  the  Continent  well  worthy  of  notice.  In  Bou- 
logne we  read  as  we  ramble  through  it,  'Ici  est  mort  1'Auteur  de  Gil 
Bias ; '  in  Rouen,  '  Ici  est  no"  Pierre  Corneille : '  in  Geneva,  '  Ici  est  no" 
Jean-Jacques  Rousseau : '  and  in  Dijon  there  is  the  Maison  Bossuet ;  in 
Paris,  the  Quai  Voltaire.  Very  rare  are  such  memorials  among  us  ; 
and  yet,  wherever  we  met  with  them,  in  whatever  country  they  were, 
or  of  whatever  age,  we  should  surely  say  that  they  were  evidences  of 
refinement  and  sensibility  in  the  people.  The  house  of  Pindar  was 
spared 

when  temple  and  tower 
Went  to  the  ground ; 


ITALY.  449 

and  its  ruins  were  held  sacred  to  the  last.     According  to  Pausanias, 
they  were  still  to  be  seen  in  the  second  century. 

P.  385,  1.  28. 

Held  many  a  pleasant,  many  a  grave  discourse 
See  his  Life  by  Sigonio. 

P.  386,  1.  6. 
A  house  of  trade, 

When  I  saw  it  in  1822,  a  basket-maker  lived  on  the  ground  floor, 
and  over  him  a  seller  of  chocolate. 

P.  386,  1.  5. 
Without  a  blessing  on  thee. 

The  Piazza  Doria,  or,  as  it  is  now  called,  the  Piazzi  di  San  Matteo, 
insignificant  as  it  may  be  thought,  is  to  me  the  most  interesting  place 
in  Genoa.  It  was  there  that  Doria  assembled  the  people,  when  he  gave 
them  their  liberty  (Sigonii  Vila  Donee) ;  and  on  one  side  of  it  is  the 
church  he  lies  buried  in,  on  the  other  a  house,  originally  of  very  small 
dimensions,  with  this  inscription :  S.  C.  Andrae  de  Auria  Patriso  Libe- 
ratori  Munus  Publicum. 

The  streets  of  old  Genoa,  like  those  of  Venice,  were  constructed 
only  for  foot-passengers. 

P.  387,  1.  6. 

Before  the  ocean-wave  thy  wealth  reflected, 

Alluding  to  the  Palace  which  he  built  afterwards,  and  in  which  he 
twice  entertained  the  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth.  It  is  the  most 
magnificent  edifice  on  the  bay  of  Genoa. 

P.  387,  1.  8. 

The  ambitious  man,  that  in  a  perilous  hour 
Fell  from  the  plank. 

Fiesco.  For  an  account  of  his  conspiracy,  see  Robertson's  History 
of  Charles  the  Fifth. 

38*  3G 


450  ITALY. 

P.  389,  1.  12. 

break  the  hearts  of  the  people; 

Such  as  the  Gabelles  formerly  in  France ;  "  ou  le  droit,"  says  Mon- 
tesquieu, "exce"doit  de  dix-sept  fois  la  valeur  de  la  marchandise." 
Salt  is  an  article,  of  which  none  know  the  value,  who  have  not  known 
the  want  of  it 

P.  389,  1.  22. 
the  historian, 

Who  he  is,  I  have  yet  to  learn.  The  story  was  told  to  me  many 
years  ago  by  a  great  reader  of  the  old  annalists ;  but  I  have  searched 
every  where  for  it  in  vain.  • 

P.  390,  1.  23. 
Mindful  to  migrate 

'Chaque  maison  est  pourvue  de  bateaux,  et  lorsque  1'inondation 
s'annonce,'  &c. — Lettres  de  Chateauvieux. 

P.  390,  1.  29. 
on  to  where  the  path,  $c. 

It  was  somewhere  in  the  Maremma,  a  region  so  fatal  to  so  many, 
that  the  unhappy  Pia,  a  Siennese  lady  of  the  family  of  Tolommei,  fell 
a  sacrifice  to  the  jealousy  of  her  husband.  Thither  he  conveyed  her 
in  the  sultry  time, 

"  tra  '1  Luglio  e  'I  Settembre ;" 

having  resolved  in  his  heart  that  she  should  perish  there,  even  though 
he  perished  there  with  her.  Not  a  word  escaped  from  him  on  the  way, 
not  a  syllable  in  answer  to  her  remonstrances  or  her  tears ;  and  in  sul- 
len silence  he  watched  patiently  by  her  till  she  died. 

"Siena  mi  fe;  disfecimi  Maremma. 
Salsi  colui,  clie  'nnanellata  pria, 
Disposando,  m'  avec  con  la  sua  gemma." 

The  Maremma  is  continually  in  the  mind  of  Dante ;  now  as  swarm- 
ing with  serpents,  and  now  as  employed  in  its  great  work  of  destruction. 

P.  391,  1.  18. 

If  once  again  in  England,  once  again 
"Who  has  travelled,  and  cannot  say  with  Catullus, 


ITALY.  451 

"  O  quid  solutis  est  beatius  curis  ? 
Ciiunn  mens  onus  reponit,  ac  peregrine 
Lahore  fessi  venimus  larem  ad  nostrum, 
Desideratoque  acquiescimus  lecto." 

P.  392,  1.  21. 

And  what  transcends  them  all,  a  noble  action. 
After  line  21  in  the  MS. 

What  though  his  ancestors,  early  or  late, 

Were  not  ennobled  by  the  breath  of  kings ; 

Yet  in  his  veins  was  running  at  his  birth 

The  blood  of  those  most  eminent  of  old 

For  wisdom,  virtue  —  those  who  could  renounce 

The  things  of  this  world  for  their  conscience-sake, 

And  die  like  blessed  martyrs. 


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